Children  of  Men 

By  BRUNO  LESSING 


^ 


^ 


ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 


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'  The  sheep  are  coming  !      They're  coming  over  the  hill  ! 
Watch,  liebche.n  ;  watch,  irrecious  /  '  " 


CHILDREN      OF      MEN 


BY 


BRUNO     LESSING,^" 


.A 


"For  He  doth  not  afflict  willingly 
nor  grieve  the  children  of  men.** 


NEW    YORK 

McCLURE,    PHILLIPS    ^    CO 

MCMIII 


Copyright,  1903,  hy 
McCLURE,   PHILLIPS  &  CO. 

Copyright,  1903,  hy  S.  S.  McClure  Co. 

Published,  September,  1903      • 


t:y^ 


^' 


•"•  k*«  '-     •  •  •  ^«  •    • 


•  •  -• 


>  • 


•  •' 


CONTENTS 

PAoa 

The  End  of  the  Task, 8 

The  Sadeb  Gxjest 33 

A  RiPT  IN  THE  Cloud, 43 

Out  op  His  Orbit 51 

The  Poisoned  Chai 67 

Urim  and  Thummim 81 

A  Yiddish  Idyll, 91 

The  Story  op  Sarai 99 

The  Americanisation  op  Shadrach  Cohen,      .        .  107 

Hannukah  Lights 125 

A  Swallow-Tailer  por  Two, 139 

Deborah, 155 

An  Interruption, 167 

The  Murderer, 181 

Unconverted 195 

Without  Fear  of  God, 207 

The  Sun  op  Wisdom 217 

A  Daughter  op  Israel 231 

The  Message  op  Arcturus 245 

Queer  Scharenstein,           259 

The  Compact, 273 

A  Song  op  Songs, 285 

A  Wedding  in  Duress, 299 


412090 


THE    END   OF    THE    TASK 


THE  END  OF  THE  TASK 
I 

The  sewing-machines  whirred  like  a  thousand 
devils.  QYou  have  no  idea  what  a  noise  thirty  sew- 
ing-machines will  make  when  they  are  running  at 
full  speed.  Each  machine  is  made  up  of  dozens 
of  little  wheels  and  cogs  and  levers  and  ratchets, 
and  each  part  tries  to  pound,  scrape,  squeak  and 
bang  and  roar  louder  than  all  the  others.  The 
old  man  who  went  crazy  last  year  in  this  very  same 
shop  used  to  sit  in  the  cell  where  they  chained  him, 
with  his  fingers  in  his  ears,  to  keep  out  the  noise 
of  the  sewing-machines.  He  said  the  incessant 
din  was  eating  into  his  brains,  and,  time  and  again, 
he  tried  to  dash  out  those  poor  brains  against  the 
padded  wall^    y 

The  sewing-machines  whirred  and  roared  and 
clicked,  and  the  noise  drowned  every  other  sound. 
Braun  finished  garment  after  garment  and  ar- 
ranged them  in  a  pile  beside  his  machine.  When 
there  were  twenty  in  the  pile  he  paused  in  his  work 
[8] 


r.Cn hVD'R EN  OF  MEN 
— if  your  eyes  were  shut  you  would  never  have 
known  that  one  machine  had  stopped — and  he 
carried  the  garments  to  the  counter,  where  the 
marker  gave  him  a  ticket  for  them.  Then  he  re- 
turned to  his  machine.  This  was  the  routine  of 
his  daily  labour  from  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning 
until  seven  o'clock  at  night.  The  only  deviation 
front  this  routine  occurred  when  Lizschen  laid  the 
twentieth  garment  that  she  had  finished  upon  her 
pile  and  Braun  saw  her  fragile  figure  stoop  to 
raise  the  pile.  Then  his  machine  would  stop,  in 
two  strides  he  would  be  at  her  side,  and  with  a 
smile  he  would  carry  the  garments  to  the  counter 
for  her  and  bring  her  the  ticket  for  them.  Liz- 
schen would  cease  working  to  watch  him,  and  when 
he  handed  her  the  ticket  she  would  smile  at  him, 
and  sometimes,  when  no  one  was  looking,  she  would 
seize  his  hand  and  press  It  tightly  against  her 
cheek — oh !  so  tightly,  as  if  she  were  drowning,  and 
that  hand  were  a  rock  of  safety.  And,  when  she 
resumed  her  work,  a  tear  would  roll  slowly  over 
the  very  spot  where  his  hand  had  rested,  tremble 
for  an  instant  upon  her  pale  cheek,  and  then  fall 
upon  the  garment  where  the  needle  would  sew  it 
[4] 


THE    END   OF    THE    TASK 

firmly  into  the  seam.  But  you  never  would  have 
known  that  two  machines  had  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment; there  were  twenty-eight  others  to  keep  up 
the  roaring  and  the  rattling  and  the  hum. 

On  and  on  they  roared.;^  There  was  no  other 
sound  to  conflict  with  or  to  vary  the  monotony. 
At  each  machine  sat  a  human  being  working  with 
hand,  foot,  and  eye,  watching  the  flashing  needle, 
guarding  the  margin  of  the  seams,  jerking  the 
cloth  hither  and  thither  quickly,  accurately,  watch- 
ing the  spool  to  see  that  the  thread  ran  freely,  oil- 
ing the  gear  with  one  hand  while  the  other  con- 
tinued to  push  the  garment  rapidly  under  the 
needle,  the  whole  body  swaying,  bending,  twisting 
this  way  and  that  to  keep  time  and  pace  with  the 
work.  Every  muscle  of  the  body  toiled,  but  the 
mind  was  free — free  as  a  bird  to  fly  from  that  suf- 
focating room  out  to  green  fields  and  woods  and 
flowers.     And  Braun  was  thinking.  I 

Linder  had  told  him  of  a  wonderful  place  where 
beautiful  pictures  could  be  looked  at  for  nothing. 
It  was  probably  untrue.  Linder  was  not  above 
lying.  Braun  had  been  in  this  country  six  long 
years,  and  in  all  that  time  he  had  never  found  any- 
[5] 


CHILDREN  OF  MEN 
thing  that  could  be  had  for  nothing.  Yet  Linder 
said  he  had  seen  them.  ^  Paintings  in  massive  gold 
frames,  real,  solid  gold,  and  such  paintings! 
Woodland  scenes  and  oceans  and  ships  and  cattle 
and  mountains,  and  beautiful  ladies — such  pictures 
as  the  theatrical  posters  and  the  lithograph  ad- 
vertisements on  the  streets  displayed,  only  these 
were  real.     And  it  cost  nothing  to  look  at  them ! 

Nineteen — ^twenty!  That  completed  the  pile. 
It  had  taken  about  an  hour,  and  he  had  earned 
seven  cents.  He  carried  the  pile  to  the  counter, 
received  his  ticket,  and  returned  to  his  machine, 
stopping  only  to  smile  at  Lizschen,  who  had  fin- 
ished but  half  a  pile  in  that  time,  and  who  looked 
so  white  and  tired,  yet  smiled  so  sweetly  at  him — 
then  on  with  his  work  and  thoughts. 

He  would  take  Lizschen  to  see  them.  It  was 
probably  all  a  lie,  but  the  place  was  far,  far  up- 
town, near  Madison  Square — Braun  had  never  been 
north  of  Houston  Street — and  the  walk  might  do 
Lizschen  good.  He  would  say  nothing  to  her 
about  the  pictures  until  he  came  to  the  place  and 
found  out  for  himself  if  Linder  had  told  the  truth. 
Otherwise  the  disappointment  might  do  her  harm. 
[6] 


I 


THE    END   OF   THE    TASK 

Poor  Lizschen!  A  feeling  of  wild,  blind  rage 
overwhelmed  Braun  for  an  instant,  then  passed 
away,  leaving  his  frame  rigid  and  his  teeth  tightly 
clenched.  While  it  lasted  he  worked  like  an  autom- 
aton, seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing,  feeling 
nothing  save  a  chaotic  tumult  in  his  heart  and  brain 
that  could  find  no  vent  in  words,  no  audible  ex- 
pression save  in  a  fierce  outcry  against  fate — re- 
sistless, remorseless  fate^A  few  months  ago  these 
attacks  had  come  upon  him  more  frequently,  and 
had  lasted  for  hours,  leaving  him  exhausted  and 
ill.  But  they  had  become  rarer  and  less  violent; 
there  is  no  misfortune  to  which  the  human  mind 
cannot  ultimately  become  reconciled.  ;  Lizschen 
was  soon  to  die.  Braun  had  rebelled ;  his  heart  and 
soul,  racked  almost  beyond  endurance,  had  cried 
out  against  the  horror,  the  injustice,  the  wanton 
cruelty,  of  his  brown-eyed,  pale-cheeked  Lizschen 
wasting  away  to  death  before  his  eyes.  But  there 
was  no  hope,  and  he  had  gradually  become  recon- 
ciled. The  physician  at  the  public  dispensary  had 
told  him  she  might  live  a  month  or  she  might  live 
a  year  longer,  he  could  not  foretell  more  accurately, 
but  of  ultimate  recovery  there  was  no  hope  on 
[7] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

earth.     And  Braun's  rebellious  outbursts  against 
cruel  fate  had  become  rarer  and  rarer.     Do  not 
imagine  that  these  emotions  had  ever  shaped  them- 
selves in  so  many  words,  or  that  he  had  attempted 
by  any  process  of  reasoning  to  argue  the  matter 
with  himself  or  to  see  vividly  what  it  all  meant, 
what  horrible  ordeal  he  was  passing  through,  or 
what  the  future  held  in  store  for  him.     From  hislj 
tenth  year  until  his  twentieth  Braun  had  worked  in " 
factories  in  Russia,  often  under  the  lash.     He  was  u 
twenty-six,  and  his  six  years  in  this  country  had 
been    spent    in    sweatshops.     Such   men    do    not 
formulate  thoughts  in  words:  they  feel  dumbly, 
like  dogs  and  horses. ) 


II 


The  day's  work  was  done.  Braun  and  Lizschen 
were  walking  slowly  uptown,  hand  in  hand,  attract- 
ing many  an  inquiring,  half-pitying  glance.  She 
was  so  white,  he  so  haggard  and  wild-eyed.  It 
was  a  delightful  spring  night,  the  air  was  balmy 
and  soothing,  and  Lizschen  coughed  less  than  she 
had  for  several  days.  Braun  had  spoken  of  a  pic- 
[8] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TASK 
ture  he  had  once  seen  in  a  shop-window  in  Russia. 
Lizschen's  eyes  had  become  animated. 

"They  are  so  wonderful,  those  painters,"  she 
said.  "  With  nothing  but  brushes  they  put  colours 
together  until  you  can  see  the  trees  moving  in  the 
breeze,  and  almost  imagine  you  hear  the  birds  in 
them." 

"  I  don't  care  much  for  trees,"  said  Braun,  "  or 
birds  either.  I  like  ships  and  battle  pictures  where 
people  are  doing  something  great." 

"  Maybe  that  is  because  you  have  always  lived 
in  cities,"  said  Lizschen.  "  When  I  was  a  girl  I 
lived  in  the  country,  near  Odessa,  and  oh,  how 
beautiful  the  trees  were  and  how  sweet  the  flowers ! 
And  I  used  to  sit  under  a  tree  and  look  at  the 
woods  across  the  valley  all  day  long.  Ah,  if  I 
could  only !  " 

She  checked  herself  and  hoped  that  Braun  had 
not  heard.  But  he  had  heard  and  his  face  had 
clouded.  He,  too,  had  wished  and  wished  and 
wished  through  many  a  sleepless  night,  and  now 
he  could  easily  frame  the  unfinished  thought  in 
Lizschen's  mind.  If  he  could  send  her  to  the  coun- 
try, to  some  place  where  the  air  was  warm  and 
[9] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 

dry,  perhaps  her  days  might  be  prolonged.  But 
he  could  not.  He  had  to  work  and  she  had  to 
work,  and  he  had  to  look  on  and  watch  her  toiling, 
toiling,  day  after  day,  without  end,  without  hope. 
The  alternative  was  to  starve. 

They  came  to  the  place  that  Linder  had  de- 
scribed, and,  surely  enough,  before  them  rose  a 
huge  placard  announcing  that  admission  to  the 
exhibition  of  paintings  was  free.  CThe  pictures 
were  to  be  sold  at  public  auction  at  the  end  of  the 
week,  and  for  several  nights  they  were  on  inspec- 
tion. The  young  couple  stood  outside  the  door 
a  while,  watching  the  people  who  were  going  in 
and  coming  out;  then  Braun  said: 

"  Come,  Lizschen,  let  us  go  in.     It  is  free." 

Lizschen  drew  back  timidly.  "  They  will  not 
let  people  like  us  go  in.  It  is  for  nobility."  But 
Braun  drew  her  forward. 

"  They  can  do  no  more  than  ask  us  to  go  out," 
he  said.  "  Besides,  I  would  like  to  have  a  glimpse 
of  the  paintings."^ 

With  many  misgivings  Lizschen   followed  him 

into  the  building,  and  found  herself  in  a  large  hall, 

(brilliantly   illuminated,  walled   in   with   paintings 

[10] 


THE   END   OF    THE    TASK 

whose  gilt  frames  shone  like  fiery  gold  in  the  bright 
light  of  numerous  electric  lamps.  For  a  moment 
the  sight  dazzled  her,  and  she  gasped  for  breatlO 
The  large  room,  with  its  soft  carpet,  the  glittering 
lights  and  reflections,  the  confused  mass  of  colours 
that  the  paintings  presented  to  her  eyes,  and  the 
air  of  charm  that  permeates  all  art  galleries,  be 
they  ever  so  poor,  were  all  things  so  far  apart  from 
her  life,  so  foreign  not  only  to  her  experience,  but 
even  to  her  imagination,  that  the  scene  seemed 
unreal  at  first,  as  if  it  had  been  taken  from  a  fairy 
tale.  Braun  was  of  a  more  phlegmatic  tempera- 
ment, and  not  easily  moved.  The  lights  merely 
made  his  eyes  blink  a  few  times,  and  after  that  he 
saw  only  Lizschen's  face.  He  saw  the  blood  leave 
it  and  a  bright  pallor  overspread  her  cheeks,  saw 
the  frail  hand  move  convulsively  to  her  breast,  a 
gesture  that  he  knew  so  well,  and  feared  that  she 
was  about  to  have  a  coughing  spell.  Then,  sud- 
denly, he  saw  the  colour  come  flooding  back  to  her 
face,  and  he  saw  her  eyes  sparkling,  dancing  with 
a  joy  that  he  had  never  seen  in  them  before.  Her 
whole  frame  seemed  suddenly  to  become  animated 
with  a  new  life  and  vigour.  Somewhat  startled 
[H] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

by  this  transformation  he  followed  her  gaze.     Liz- 
schen  was  looking  at  a  painting. 

"  What  is  it,  dear?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  picture,"  she  said  in  a  whisper.  *'  The 
green  fields  and  that  tree!  And  the  road!  It 
stretches  over  the  hill !  The  sun  will  set,  too,  very 
soon.  Then  the  sheep  will  come  over  the  top  of 
the  hill.  Oh,  I  can  almost  hear  the  leader's  bell! 
And  there  is  a  light  breeze.  See  the  leaves  of  the 
tree;  they  are  moving!  Can't  you  feel  the  breeze? 
Oh,  darling,  isn't  it  wonderful?  I  never  saw  any- 
thing like  that  before." 

Braun  looked  curiously  at  the  canvas.  To  his 
eyes  it  presented  a  woodland  scene,  very  natural, 
to  be  sure,  but  not  more  natural  than  nature,  and 
equally  uninteresting  to  him.  He  looked  around 
him  to  select  a  painting  upon  which  he  could  ex- 
pend more  enthusiasm. 

"  Now,  there's   the  kind  I  like,   Lizschen,"  he 

said.     "  That  storm  on  the  ocean,  with  the  big 

ship  going  to  pieces.     And  that  big  picture  over 

there  with  all  the  soldiers  rushing  to  battle." 

^  He  found  several  others  and  was  pointing  out 

what  he  found  to  admire  in  them,  when,  happening 
[12] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TASK 
to  look  at  his  companion's  face,  he  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  still  fastened  upon  the  woodland  picture, 
and  he  realised  that  she  had  not  heard  a  word  of 
what  he  had  said.     He  smiled  at  her  tenderly. 

"  Ah,  Lizschen,"  he  said,  "  if  I  were  rich  I  would 
take  that  picture  right  off  the  wall  and  give  them 
a  hundred  dollars  for  it,  and  we  would  take  it  home 
with  us  so  that  Lizschen  could  look  at  it  all  day 
long3^ 

But  s:^ML.izschen  did  not  hear.  All  that  big 
room,  with  its  lights  and  its  brilliant  colourings, 
and  all  those  people  who  had  come  in,  and  even  her 
lover  at  her  side  had  faded  from  Lizschen's  con- 
sciousness. The  picture  that  absorbed  all  her 
being  had  ceased  to  be  a  mere  beautiful  painting. 
Lizschen  was  walking  down  that  road  herself;  the 
soft  breeze  was  fanning  her  fevered  cheeks,  the 
rustling  of  the  leaves  had  become  a  reality;  she 
was  walking  over  the  hill  to  meet  the  flock  of  sheep, 
for  she  could  hear  the  shepherd's  dog  barking  and 
the  melodious  tinkling  of  the  leader's  bell. 

From  the  moment  of  their  entrance  many  curious 
glances  had  been  directed  at  them.     People  won- 
dered who  this  odd-looking,  ill-clad  couple  could 
[13] 


I 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

be.  When  Lizschen  became  absorbed  in  the  wood- 
land scene  and  stood  staring  at  it  as  if  it  were  the 
most  wonderful  thing  on  earth,  those  who  observed 
her  exchanged  glances,  and  several  onlookers 
smiled.  Their  entrance,  Lizschen's  bewilderment, 
and  then  her  ecstasy  over  the  painting  had  all  hap- 
pened in  the  duration  of  three  or  four  minutes. 
The  liveried  attendants  had  noticed  them  and  had 
looked  at  one  another  with  glances  that  expressed 
doubt  as  to  what  their  duty  was  under  the  circum- 
stances. Clearly  these  were  not  the  kind  of  people 
for  whom  this  exhibition  had  been  arranged. 
They  were  neither  lovers  of  art  nor  prospective 
purchasers.  And  they  looked  so  shabby  and  so 
I  distressingly  poor  and  ill-nourished.  / 

Finally  oii^  attendant,,  bolder  than  the  rest,  ap- 
proached them,  ^nd  tapping  Braun  lightly  upon 
the  sleeve,  said,  quite  good-naturedly: 

"  I  think  you've  made  a  mistake." 

Braun  looked  at  him  and  shook  his  head  and 

turned  to  Lizschen  to  see  if  she  understood.     But 

Lizschen  neither  saw  nor  heard.     Then  the  man, 

seeing  that  he  was  dealing  with  foreigners,  became 

more  abrupt  in  his  demeanour,  and,  with  a  grunt, 
[14] 


I 


THE    END   OF    THE    TASK 

pointed  to  the  door.  Braun  understood.  To  be  sum- 
marily ordered  from  the  place  seemed  more  natural 
to  him  than  to  be  permitted  to  remain  unmolested 
amid  all  that  splendour.  It  was  more  in  keeping 
with  the  experiences  of  his  life.  "  Come,  Liz- 
schen,"  he  said,  "  let  us  go."  Lizschen  turned  to 
him  with  a  smiling  face,  but  the  smile  died  quickly 
when  she  beheld  the  attendant,  and  she  clutched 
Braun's  arm.  "  Yes,  let  us  go,"  she  whispered  to 
him,  and  they  went  out.^ 


in 


On  the  homeward  journey  not  a  word  was 
spoken.  Braun's  thoughts  were  bitter,  rebellious; 
the  injustice  of  life's  arrangements  rankled  deeply 
at  that  moment,  his  whole  soul  felt  outraged,  fate 
was  cruel,  life  was  wrong,  all  wrong.  Lizschen,  on 
the  other  hand,  walked  lightly,  in  a  state  of  mild 
excitement,  all  her  spirit  elated  over  the  picture 
she  had  seen.  It  had  been  but  a  brief  communionjl 
with  nature,  but  it  had  thrilled  the  hidden  chords 


of  her  nature,  chords  of  whose  existence  she  had' 

never  dreamed  before.     Alas !  the  laws  of  this  same 

[15] 


CHILDREN  OF  MEN 
beautiful  nature  are  inexorable.  For  that  brief 
moment  of  happiness  Lizschen  was  to  submit  to 
swift,  terrible  punishment.  Within  a  few  steps  of 
the  dark  tenement  which  Lizschen  called  home  a 
sudden  weakness  came  upon  her,  then  a  violent  fit 
of  coughing  which  racked  her  frail  body  as  though 
it  would  render  it  asunder.  When  she  took  her 
hands  from  her  mouth  Braun  saw  that  they  were 
red.  A  faintness  seized  him,  but  he  must  not  yield 
to  it.  Without  a  word  he  gathered  Lizschen  in  his 
arms  and  carried  her  through  the  hallway  into  the 
rear  building  and  then  up  four  flights  of  stairs  to 
the  apartment  where  she  lived. 

Then  the  doctor  came^he  was  a  young  man, 
with  his  own  struggle  for  existence  weighing  upon 
him,  and  yet  ever  ready  for  such  cases  as  this  where 
the  only  reward  lay  in  the  approbation  of  his  own 
conscience^T^and  Braun  hung  upon  his  face  for  the 
verdict. 

(^  It  IS  just  another  attack  like  the  last,"  he  was 
saying  to  himself.  "  She  will  have  to  lie  in  bed 
for  a  day,  and  then  she  will  be  just  as  well  as  be- 
fore. Perhaps  it  may  even  help  her!  But  it  is 
nothing  more  serious.  She  has  had  many  of  them. 
[16] 


I  ......... 

[p  saw  them  myself.  It  is  not  so  terribly  serious. 
Not  yet.  Oh,  it  cannot  be  yet!  Maybe,  after 
a  long  time — but  not  yet — ^it  is  too  soon."  Over 
and  over  again  he  argued  thus,  and  in  his  heart 
did  not  believe  it.  Then  the  doctor  shook  his  head 
and  said :  "  It's  near  the  end,  my  friend.  A  few 
days — perhaps  a  week.  But  she  cannot  leave  her 
bed  again." 

Braun  stood  alone  in  the  room,  upright,  motion- 
less, with  his  fist*  clenched  until  the  nails  dug  deep 
into  the  skin,  seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing, 
feeling  nothing.  His  eyes  were  dry,  his  lips 
parched.  The  old  woman  with  whom  Lizschen 
lived  came  out  and  motioned  to  him  to  enter  the 
bedroom.  Lizschen  was  whiter  than  the  sheets,  but 
her  eyes  were  bright,  and  she  was  smiling  and  hold- 
ing out  her  arms  to  him.  "  You  must  go  now, 
Liebchen,''  she  said  faintly.  "  I  will  be  all  right 
to-morrow.  Kiss  me  good-night,  and  I  will  dream 
about  the  beautiful  picture."  He  kissed  her  and 
went  out  without  a  word.  All  that  night  he  walked 
the  streets. 

When  the  day  dawned  he  went  to  her  again. 

She  was  awake  and  happy.     "  I  dreamt  about  it  all 
[17] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 
night,  Liehchen,'*  she  said,  joyfully.     "  Do  you 
think  they  would  let  me  see  it  again  ?  " 

He  went  to  his  work,  and  all  that  day  the  roar 
of  the  machines  set  his  brain  a-whirring  and  a-roar- 
ing  as  if  it,  too,  had  become  a  machine.  He 
worked  with  feverish  activity,  and  when  the  ma- 
chines stopped  he  found  that  he  had  earned  a  dollar 
and  five  cents.  Then  he  went  to  Lizschen  and 
gave  her  fifty  cents,  which  he  told  her  he  had  found 
in  the  street.  Lizschen  was  much  weaker,  and 
could  only  speak  in  a  whisper.  She  beckoned  to 
him  to  hold  his  ear  to  her  lips,  and  she  whispered : 

"  Liehchen,  if  I  could  only  see  the  picture  once 
more." 

"  I  will  go  and  ask  them,  darling,"  he  said. 
"  Perhaps  they  will  let  me  bring  it  to  you." 

Braun  went  to  his  room  and  took  from  his  trunk 

a  dagger  that   he   had   brought   with   him    from 

Russia.     It  was  a  rusty,  old-fashioned  affair  which 

even  the  pawnbrokers  had  repeatedly  refused  to 

accept.     Why  he  kept  it  or  for  what  purpose  he 

now  concealed  it  in  his  coat  he  could  not  tell.    His 

mind  had  ceased  to  work  coherently :  his  brain  was 

now  a  machine,  whirring  and  roaring  like  a  thou- 
[18] 


THE    END   OF   THE    TASK 
sand   devils.      Thought?      Thought   had   ceased. 
Braun    was    a    machine,    and    machines    do    not 
think. 

He  walked  to  the  picture  gallery.  He  had  for- 
gotten its  exact  location,  but  some  mysterious  in- 
stinct guided  him  straight  to  the  spot.  The  doors 
were  already  opened,  but  the  nightly  throng  of 
spectators  had  hardly  begun  to  arrive.  And  now 
a  strange  thing  happened.  Braun  entered  and 
walked  straight  to  the  painting  of  the  woodland 
scene  that  hung  near  the  door.  There  was  no 
attendant  to  bar  his  progress.  A  small  group  of 
persons,  gathered  in  front  of  a  canvas  that  hung 
a  few  feet  away,  had  their  backs  turned  to  him, 
and  stood  like  a  screen  between  him  and  the  em- 
ployees of  the  place.  Without  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion, without  looking  to  right  or  to  left,  walking 
with  a  determined  stride  and  making  no  effort  to 
conceal  his  purpose,  and,  at  the  same  time,  oblivious 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  unobserved,  Braun  ap- 
proached the  painting,  raised  it  from  the  hook, 
and,  with  the  wire  dangling  loosely  from  it,  took 
the  painting  under  his  arm  and  walked  out  of  the 

place.     If  he  had  been  observed,  would  he  have 
[19] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

brought  his  dagger  into  use?  It  is  impossible  to 
tell.  He  was  a  machine,  and  his  brain  was  roar- 
ing. Save  for  one  picture  that  rose  constantly 
before  his  vision,  he  was  blind.  All  that  he  saw 
was  Lizschen,  so  white  in  her  bed,  waiting  to  see 
the  woodland  picture  once  more. 

He  brought  it  straight  to  her  room.  She  was 
too  weak  to  move,  too  worn  out  to  express  any 
emotion,  but  her  eyes  looked  unutterable  gratitude 
when  she  saw  the  painting. 

"  Did  they  let  you  have  it  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"  They  were  very  kind,"  said  Braun.  "  I  told 
them  you  wanted  to  see  it  and  they  said  I  could 
have  it  as  long  as  I  liked.  When  you  are  better 
I  will  take  it  back." 

Lizschen  looked  at  him  wistfully.  "  I  will  never 
be  better,  Liebchen/'  she  whispered. 

Braun  hung  the  picture  at  the  foot  of  the  bed 
where  Lizschen  could  see  it  without  raising  her 
head,  and  then  went  to  the  window  and  sat  there 
looking  out  into  the  night.  Lizschen  was  happy 
beyond  all  bounds.  Her  eyes  drank  in  every  detail 
of  the  wonderful  scene  until  her  whole  being  be- 
came filled  with  the  delightful  spirit  that  pervaded 
[20] 


THE    END   OF    THE    TASK 

and  animated  the  painting.  A  master's  hand  had 
imbued  that  deepening  blue  sky  with  the  sadness 
of  twilight,  the  soft,  sweet  pathos  of  departing 
day,  and  Lizschen's  heart  beat  responsive  to  every 
shade  and  shadow.  In  the  waning  light  every  out- 
line was  softened;  here  tranquillity  reigned  su- 
preme, and  Lizschen  felt  soothed.  Yet  in  the  dis- 
tance, across  the  valley,  the  gloom  of  night  had 
begun  to  gather.  Once  or  twice  Lizschen  tried 
to  penetrate  this  gloom,  but  the  effort  to  see  what 
the  darkness  was  hiding  tired  her  eyes. 

IV 

The  newspapers  the  next  day  were  full  of  the 
amazing  story  of  the  stolen  painting..  They  told 
how  the  attendants  at  the  gallery  had  discovered 
the  break  in  the  line  of  paintings  and  had  immedi- 
ately notified  the  manager  of  the  place,  who  at 
once  asked  the  number  of  the  picture. 

"  It's  number  thirty-eight,"  they  told  him.  He 
seized  a  catalogue,  turned  to  No.  38,  and  turned 
pale.  "It's  Corot's  'Spring  Twilight !'" (he 
cried.     "  It  cost  the  owner  three  thousand  dollars, 

and  we're  responsible  for  it !  *!  -^ 
[21] 


CHILDREN  OF  MEN 
The  newspapers  went  on  to  tell  how  the  police 
had  been  notified,  and  how  the  best  detectives  had 
been  set  to  work  to  trace  the  stolen  painting,  how 
all  the  theives'  dens  in  New  York  had  been  ran- 
sacked, and  all  the  thieves  questioned  and  cross- 
questioned,  all  the  pawnshops  searched — and  it  all 
had  resulted  in  nothing.  But  such  excitement 
rarely  leaks  into  the  Ghetto,  and  Braun,  at  his 
machine,  heard  nothing  of  it,  knew  nothing  of 
it,  knew  nothing  of  anything  in  the  world  save 
that  the  machines  were  roaring  away  in  his 
brain  and  that  Lizschen  was  dying.  As  soon  as 
his  work  was  done  he  went  to  her.  She  smiled  at 
him,  but  was  too  weak  to  speak.  He  seated  him- 
self beside  the  bed  and  took  her  hand  in  his.  All 
day  long  she  had  been  looking  at  the  picture;  all 
day  long  she  had  been  wandering  along  the  road 
that  ran  over  the  hill,  and  now  night  had  come  and 
she  was  weary.  But  her  eyes  were  glad,  and  when 
she  turned  them  upon  Braun  he  saw  in  them  lovej 
unutterable  and  happiness  beyond  all  description.  I 
His  eyes  were  dry;  he  held  her  hand  and  stroked 
it  mechanically;  he  knew  not  what  to  say.  Then 
she  fell  asleep  and  he  sat  there  hour  after  hour, 
[22] 


If  THE    END   OF    THE    TASK 

heedless  of  the  flight  of  time.     Suddenly  Lizschen 
sat  upright,  her  eyes  wide  open  and  staring. 

I"  I  hear  them,"  she  cried.  "  I  hear  them  plainly. 
Don't  you,  Liehchen?  The  sheep  are  coming! 
They're  coming  over  the  hill!  Watch,  Liehchen; 
watch,  precious ! " 

With  all  the  force  that  remained  in  her  she 
clutched  his  hand  and  pointed  to  the  painting  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  Then  she  swayed  from  side 
to  side,  and  he  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Lizschen !  "  he  cried.  "  Lizschen !  "  But  her 
head  fell  upon  his  arm  and  lay  motionless. 

The  doctor  came  and  saw  at  a  glance  that  the 
patient  was  beyond  his  ministering.  "  It  is  over, 
my  friend,"  he  said  to  Braun.  At  the  sound  of  a 
voice  Braun  started,  looked  around  him  quite  be- 
wildered, and  then  drew  a  long  breath  which 
seemed  to  lift  him  out  of  the  stupor  into  which  he 
had  fallen.  "  Yes,  it  is  over,"  he  said,  and,  ac- 
cording to  the  custom  of  the  orthodox,  he  tore  a 
rent  in  his  coat  at  the  neck  to  the  extent  of  a  hand's 
breadth.  Then  he  took  the  painting  under  his  arm 
and  left  the  house^  ;;;isx     .y  ^^:.  v^    ./   uccf-'^.  c*,.  ,  y 

It  was  now  nearly  two  o'clock  in  the  morning 
[23] 


<^ 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

and  the  streets  were  deserted.  A  light  rain  had 
begun  to  fall,  and  Braun  took  off  his  coat  to  wrap 
it  around  his  burden.  He  walked  like  one  in  a 
dream,  seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing  save  a  dull 
monotonous  roar  which  seemed  to  come  from  all 
directions  and  to  centre  in  his  brain. 
/'  The  doors  of  the  gallery  were  closed  and  all  was 
dark.  Braun  looked  in  vain  for  a  bell,  and  after 
several  ineffectual  taps  on  the  door  began  to  pound 
lustily  with  his  fist  and  heel.  Several  night  strag- 
glers stopped  in  the  rain,  and  presently  a  small 
group  had  gathered.  Questions  were  put  to  Braun, 
but  he  did  not  hear  them.  He  kicked  and  pounded 
on  the  door,  and  the  noise  resounded  through  the 
streets  as  if  it  would  rouse  the  dead.  Presently 
the  group  heard  the  rattling  of  bolts  and  the 
creaking  of  a  rusty  key  in  a  rusty  lock,  and  all 
became  quiet.  The  door  swung  open,  and  a  fright- 
ened watchman  appeared. 

"What's    the   matter .^^      Is    there   a   fire?"  he 
asked. 

A  policeman  made  his  way  through  the  group, 
and  looked  inquiringly  from  Braun  to  the  watch- 
man.    Without  uttering  a  word  Braun  held  out 
[24] 


I 


I 


be 


THE    END   OF   THE    TASK 
the  painting,  and  at  the  sight  of  it  the  watchman 
uttered  a  cry  of  amazement  and  delight. 

"  It's  the  stolen  Corot !  "  he  exclaimed.  Then 
(turning  to  Braun,  "  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  Who 
had  it  ?     Do  you  claim  the  reward  ?  " 

Braun's  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came  from 
them,  and  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  began  to  walk 
off,  when  the  policeman  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Not  so  fast,  young  man.  You'll  have  to  give 
some  kind  of  an  account  of  how  you  got  this,"  he 
said. 

Braun  looked  at  him  stupidly,  and  the  policeman 
became  suspicious.  "  I  guess  you'd  better  come 
the  station-house,"  he  said,  and  without  more 
do  walked  off  with  his  prisoner.  Braun  made  no 
resistance,  felt  no  surprise,  offered  no  explanation. 
At  the  station-house  they  asked  him  many  ques- 
tions, but  Braun  only  looked  vacantly  at  the  ques- 
tioner, and  had  nothing  to  say.  They  locked  him 
in  a  cell  over  night,  a  gloomy  cell  that  opened  on  a 
dimly  lighted  corridor,  and  there  Braun  sat  until 
the  day  dawned,  never  moving,  never  speaking. 
Once,  during  the  night,  the  watchman  on  duty 
in  this  corridor  thought  he  heard  a  voice  whisper- 
[25] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 
ing  "  Lizschen !    Lizschen !  "  but  it  must  have  been 
the  rain  that  now  was  pouring  in  torrents. 


"There  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling;  and  there  the 
weary  be  at  rest. 

"There  the  prisoners  rest  together;  they  hear  not  the 
voice  of  the  oppressor. 

"The  small  and  the  great  are  there;  and  the  servant  is 
free  from  his  master." 

It  is  written  in  Israel  that  the  rabbi  must  give 
his  services  at  the  death-bed  of  even  the  lowliest. 
The  coffin  rested  on  two  stools  in  the  same  room 
in  which  she  died ;  beside  it  stood  the  rabbi,  clad  in 
sombre  garments,  reading  in  a  listless,  mechanical 
fashion  from  the  Hebrew  text  of  the  Book  of  Job, 
interpolating  here  and  there  some  time-worn,  com- 
monplace phrase  of  praise,  of  exhortation,  of  con- 
solation. He  had  not  known  her;  this  was  merely 
part  of  his  daily  work. 

The  sweatshop  had  been  closed  for  an  hour; 
for  one  hour  the  machines  stood  silent  and  deserted ; 
the  toilers  were  gathered  around  the  coffin,  listen- 
ing to  the  rabbi.  They  were  pale  and  gaunt,  but 
not  from  grief.  The  machines  had  done  that. 
[26] 


I 


THE    END   OF   THE    TASK 

They  had  rent  their  garments  at  the  neck,  to  the 
extent  of  a  hand's  breadth,  but  not  from  grief. 
IBlt  was  the  law.  A  figure  that  they  had  become  ac- 
customed to  see  bending  over  one  of  the  machines 
had  finished  her  last  garment.  Dry-eyed,  in  a  sort 
of  mild  wonder,  they  had  come  to  the  funeral  serv- 
ices. And  some  were  still  breathing  heavily  from 
the  morning's  work.  After  all,  it  was  pleasant  to 
sit  quiet  for  one  hour. 

Someone  whispered  the  name  of  Braun,  and  they 
looked  around.     Braun  was  not  there. 

"  He  will  not  come,"  whispered  one  of  the  men. 
"  It  is  in  the  newspaper.  He  was  sent  to  prison 
for  three  years.  He  stole  something.  A  picture, 
I  think.     I  am  not  sure." 

Those  who  heard  slowly  shook  their  heads. 
There  was  no  feeling  of  surprise,  no  shock.  And 
what  was  there  to  say?  He  had  been  one  of  them. 
He  had  drunk  out  of  the  same  cup  with  them. 
They  Jcnew^  the  taste.  What  mattered  the  one 
particular  dreg  that  he  found  ?  They  had  no  curi- 
osity. In  the  case  of  Nitza,  it  was  her  baby  who 
was  dying  because  she  could  not  buy  it  the  proper 
food.  Nitza  had  told  them.  And  so  when  Nitza 
[27] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 

cut  her  throat  they  all  knew  what  she  had  found  in 
the  cup.  Braun  hadn't  told — but  what  mattered 
it?  Probably  something  more  bitter  than  gall. 
And  three  years  in  prison?  Yes.  To  be  sure.  He 
had  stolen  something. 

"  Wherefore  is  light  given  to  him  that  is  in 
misery ^^''  droned  the  rabbi,  "  and  life  unto  the  hitter 
in  soul: 

"  Which  long  for  deaths  but  it  cometh  not;  and 
dig  for  it  more  than  for  hid  treasures; 

"  Which  rejoice  exceedingly,  and  are  glad,  when 
they  can  find  the  grave?  " 

^  And  the  rabbi,  faithful  in  the  performance  of 
his  duty,  went  on  to  expound  and  explain.  But 
his  hearers  could  not  tarry  much  longer.  The  hour 
was  nearing  its  end,  and  the  machines  would  soon 
have  to  start  again. 

It  is  an  old  story  in  the  Ghetto,  one  that  lovers 
tell  to  their  sweethearts,  who  always  cry  when  they 
hear  it.  The  machines  still  roar  and  whirr,  as  if  a 
legion  of  wild  spirits  were  shrieking  within  them, 
and  many  a  tear  is  stitched  into  the  garments,  but 
you  never  see  them,  madame — no,  gaze  as  intently 
[  28] 


I 


THE    END   OF    THE    TASK 

Upon  your  jacket  as  you  will,  the  tear  has  left  no 
stain.  There  is  an  old  man  at  the  corner  machine, 
grey-haired  and  worn,  but  he  works  briskly.  He 
is  the  first  to  arrive  each  morning,  and  the  last  to 

leave  each  night,  and  all  his  soul  is  in  his  work, 
is  machine  is  an  old  one,  and  roars  louder  than 

he  rest,  but  he  does  not  hear  it.  Day  and  night, 
sleeping  and  waking,  there  are  a  hundred  thousand 
machines  roaring  away  in  his  brain.  What  cares 
he  for  one  more  or  one  less? 


[991 


THE    SADER    GUEST 


THE    SADER    GUEST 

RosNOFSKY  was  explaining  to  me  his  theory  of 
the  lost  blue  with  which  the  ancient  Hebrew  priests 
dyed  the  talith,  when  the  door  opened  and  lanky 
Lazarus  entered,  hat  in  hand.  He  entered  cau- 
tiously, keeping  one  hand  on  the  doorknob,  and  one 
foot  firmly  planted  for  a  backward  spring.  He 
seemed  rather  embarrassed  to  find  a  third  person 
present,  but  the  matter  that  he  had  on  his  mind 
was  weighty — so  weighty,  in  fact,  that,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  he  plunged  right  into  the 
heart  of  it. 

"  Mr.  Rosnofsky,"  he  said,  "  I  love  your  daugh- 
ter." 

Rosnofsky's  eyes  opened  wide,  and  his  mouth 
shut  tight. 

"  And  she  loves  me,"  Lazarus  went  on. 

Rosnofsky's  eyes  contracted,  until  they  gleamed 

through   the   tiniest   kind    of   a   slit   between   the 

lids.     His  hand  fumbled  behind  his  back  among 
[33] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 

a  number  of  tailor's  tools  that  lay  on  the 
table. 

"  And  I  have  come  to  ask  your  consent  to  our 
marriage." 

Crash!  Rosnof sky's  aim  was  bad.  The  shears, 
instead  of  reaching  Lazarus,  shattered  the  window 
pane.  Lazarus  was  flying  rapidly  down  the  street. 
Then  Rosnofsky  turned  to  me. 

"  And  this  mixture,  as  I  was  saying,  will  pro- 
duce exactly  the  same  blue  that  the  Talmud  de- 
scribes." 

It  was  worth  while  to  become  acquainted  with 
Rosnofsky.  When  aroused,  or  crossed,  or  seri- 
ously annoyed,  he  had  a  frightful  temper,  and  the 
man  whose  misfortune  it  had  been  to  stir  him  up 
was  the  object  of  a  malediction  as  bitter  as  it  was 
fierce,  extending  through  all  his  family  for,  usu- 
ally, a  dozen  generations.  Then,  in  startling  con- 
trast to  this,  he  was  a  devout  son  of  Abraham,  and, 
in  moments  of  serious  reflection,  would  be  almost 
overcome  by  a  feeling  of  piety,  and  at  such  times 
all  that  was  good  and  noble  in  his  nature  asserted 
itself.     It  was  a  strange  blending  of  the  prosaic  / 

with  the  patriarchal.  / 

[34] 


I 


I 


THE    SADER   GUEST 

How  came  the  original  colour  to  be  lost?  "  I 
asked.  Rosnofsky  looked  at  me  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"  That  scamp  has  upset  me  completely,"  he  said. 
"  Some  other  time  I  will  tell  you.  Just  now  I  can 
think  of  nothing  but  the  effrontery  of  that  scoun- 
drel." 

"  What  makes  you  so  bitter  toward  him  ?  "  I  ven- 
tured to  ask. 

"  Bitter !  Bitter !  He  wants  to  marry  Miriam. 
The  audacity  of  the  wretch !  My  only  child.  And 
here  he  practically  tells  me  to  my  face  that  he  has 
been  making  love  to  her,  and  that  he  has  ascer- 
tained that  she  is  in  love  with  him.  And  I  never 
knew  it.  Never  even  suspected  it.  A  curse  on  the 
scamp!  Sneaking  into  my  home  to  steal  my 
daughter  from  me.  The  dishonourable  villain!  I 
trusted  him.  The  viper.  May  he  suffer  a  million 
torments !    May  the  fiends  possess  him !  " 

I  ventured  to  suggest  that  it  was  the  way  of  the 
world.  I  departed.  Somewhat  hastily.  I  did  not 
like  the  way  he  glared  at  me. 

The  next  time  I  saw  Rosnofsky  he  was  walking 

excitedly  up  and  down  his  shop,  tearing  his  hair 

[35] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

en  route.  When  he  saw  me  he  sprang  forward  and 
clutched  me  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Here !  "  he  cried.  "  I  will  leave  it  to  you.  You 
were  here  when  he  had  the  audacity  to  confess  his 
guilt  to  my  face.  Read  this."  He  thrust  a  crum- 
pled piece  of  paper  into  my  hand.  "  Read  it,  and 
tell  me  if  there  is  another  such  villain  upon  this 
earth.    Oh,  I  shall  go  mad ! " 

I  read  it.     It  was  from  Lazarus. 

"  I  told  you  that  I  loved  your  daughter,"  he 
wrote.  "  I  told  you  that  she  loved  me.  And,  like 
an  honest  man,  I  asked  you  to  consent  to  our  mar- 
riage. You  refused.  I  now  appeal  to  you  again. 
You  will  make  us  both  very  happy  by  giving  your 
consent,  as  we  would  like  you  to  be  present  at  the 
wedding.  If  you  do  not  give  your  consent,  we 
will  not  invite  you.  But  we  will  get  married,  any- 
way. We  will  elope  at  the  first  opportunity.  The 
only  way  to  stop  it  is  to  keep  Miriam  locked  in  the 
house.     Then  I  shall  call  in  the  police." 

It  was  signed,  "  Lovingly,  your  son-in-law-to- 
be." 

"  How  can  I  punish  him?  "  asked  Rosnofsky.  I 
promised  to  think  it  over.  I  had  called  merely  to 
[36] 


I 


I 


THE    SADER    GUEST 

tell  Rosnofsky  that  I  would  accept  his  invitation 
to  supper  on  Sader  night,  and  to  thank  him. 

"  You  know  the  law,"  he  said.  "  When  you 
come  bring  with  you  a  plan  to  punish  this  scoun- 
drel." 

•  •  •  •  • 

It  was  the  eve  of  the  Passover,  and  I  stood  in  the 
gloomy  hallway  tapping  at  Rosnofsky's  door. 
Dimly  through  the  darkness  I  saw  a  quivering 
shadow,  but  in  the  labyrinths  of  tenement  corri- 
dors it  is  unwise  to  investigate  shadows.  The  door 
opened,  and  Rosnofsky,  with  "  praying  cap " 
upon  his  head,  welcomed  me  to  the  feast  of  the 
Sader. 

Miriam  was  as  sweet  as  a  rose.  I  have  not  told 
you  how  pretty  she  was,  nor  shall  I  begin  now,  for 
it  is  a  very  tempting  subject,  such  as  would  be 
hkely  to  beguile  a  man  into  forgetting  the  thread 
of  his  story,  and  it  was  too  dangerous  for  me  to 
enter  upon.  Suffice  it  that  her  eyes  were  as  glori- 
ous as — but  there! 

The  table  was  arranged  for  four,  Rosnofsky, 
Miriam,  and  myself,  and  opposite  Miriam's  seat 

was  the  chair  for  the  Stranger. 
[37] 


CHILDREN    OF   MEN 

Now  the  custom  of  celebrating  this  feast,  accord- 
ing to  the  ritual,  is  like  this: 

Holding  aloft  the  unleavened  bread,  the  head 
of  the  house  must  say: 

"  This  is  the  bread  of  affliction  which  our  an- 
cestors ate  in  the  land  of  Egypt.  Let  all  those 
who  are  hungry  enter  and  eat  thereof ;  and  all  who 
are  in  distress  come  and  celebrate  the  Pass- 
over." 

And  the  youngest-born  must  arise  and  open  the 
door  so  that  the  Stranger  may  enter  and  take  his 
place  at  the  table,  and,  even  though  he  slew  one  of 
their  kin,  that  night  he  is  a  sacred  guest. 

And — as  you  have  no  doubt  already  opined — 
hardly  had  Miriam  opened  the  door  when,  with  pale 
face,  but  with  lips  that  were  pressed  in  grim  deter- 
mination, in  walked  Lazarus.  Now,  to  this  day  I 
do  not  know  whether  Miriam  expected  him,  or  what 
her  feelings  were  when  he  entered.  She  has  re- 
fused to  tell  me.  It  needed  but  one  glance  to  assure 
me  that  if  there  was  any  secret  Rosnofsky  had  not 
been  in  it. 

With  a  cry  of  rage  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  I 
feared  that  he  would  hurl  a  knife  at  the  intruder. 
[38] 


I 


THE    SADER    GUEST 

But  an  instant  later  he  recovered  himself,  and  with 
a  gurgling,  choking  sound   sank  into  his  chair. 

"  The  grace  of  God  be  with  you  all,"  saluted 
Lazarus,  still  very  pale.     Then, 

"  Am  I  a  welcome  guest  ?  " 

Rosnof  sky  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  explod- 
ing with  rage,  but  at  this  question  he  started  as  if 
he  had  been  struck.  After  a  moment's  silence  he 
arose  with  great  dignity — and  holding  out  his 
hand — the  strength  of  his  piety  never  more  for- 
cibly illustrated — said : 

"  Forgive  my  anger,  my  son.  You  are  welcome 
to  the  Feast  of  the  Passover." 

And  resuming  his  seat  he  chanted: 

"  Blessed  art  Thou,  O  Eternal,  our  God,  King  of 
the  Universe,  Creator  of  the  fruit  of  wine ! " 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  service.  Lazarus, 
with  his  eyes  upon  the  table,  chanted  the  responses, 
and  I,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  ritual,  looked  at 
Miriam,  who,  I  assure  you,  was  delightful  to  be- 
hold, particularly  when  her  eyes  twinkled  as  they 
did  now. 

By  the  time  he  had  finished  the  Sader,  Rosnof- 

sky's  troubled  spirit  had  become  soothed,  and  the 
[39] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 
final  grace  was  delivered  in  a  voice  so  calm  and 
with  a  manner  so  soothing,  that  when  he  looked  up 
Lazarus  was  emboldened  to  speak. 

"  You  are  angry  with  me,  Father  Rosnof sky," 
he  ventured. 

"  Let  us  not  speak  of  unpleasant  things  this 
night,"  replied  the  tailor,  gently.  "  This  is  a  holy 
night." 

Lazarus,  in  no  way  abashed,  deftly  led  the  old 
man  to  expound  some  of  the  intricate  sayings  of 
the  rabbis  upon  the  Passover,  which  Rosnofsky, 
who  was  something  of  a  theologian,  did  with  great 
eagerness.  Now,  how  it  came  about  I  cannot  tell, 
but  Lazarus  was  so  greatly  interested  in  this  dis- 
cussion, and  Rosnofsky  was  so  determined  to  prove 
that  the  old  rabbis  were  all  in  the  wrong  on  this 
one  point,  that  when  the  meal  was  over  he  declared 
that  if  Lazarus  would  call  the  next  night  he  would 
have  a  book  that  would  convince  him.  Lazarus 
had  the  discretion  to  take  his  departure.  When  he 
had  gone  Rosnofsky  puffed  his  pipe  in  silence  for 
some  moments.  Then,  with  a  quaint  smile,  he 
turned  to  me  and  said: 

"  The  young  rogue !  " 

And  then  he  gazed  at  Miriam  until  she  grew  red, 

[40] 


A    RIFT    IN    THE    CLOUD 


A    RIFT    IN    THE    CLOUD 

Though  the  sky  be  grey  and  dreary,  yet  will  the 
faintest  rift  reveal  a  vision  of  the  dazzling 
brightness  that  lies  beyond. 

So  does  a  word,  a  look,  a  single  act  of  a  human 
being  often  reveal  the  glorious  beauty  of  a  soul. 

\o  is  it  written  in  the  Talmud,  and  it  needs  no 
rabbi  to  expound  it.  What  I  am  about  to  tell  you 
is  not  a  rounded  tale ;  it  hardly  rises  to  the  dimity 
of  a  sketch.  There  is  a  man  who  lives  in  the  very 
heart  of  a  big  city,  and  I  once  had  a  peep  into  his 
heart.  His  name  is  Polatschek.  He  makes  cigars 
during  the  day  and  gets  drunk  every  night. 

In  that  Hungarian  colony  which  clusters  around 
East  Houston  Street,  the  lines  that  separate  Gen- 
tile, Jew,  and  Gipsy  are  not  more  strictly  drawn 
than  are  the  lines  between  the  lines.  And  as  the 
pedigree  of  every  member  is  the  common  property 
of  the  colony,  the  social  status  of  each  group  i« 
pretty  clearly  defined. 

[43] 


CHILDREN    OF   MEN 

Being  an  outcast,  Polatschek  has  no  social  status 
whatever,  and  all  that  the  colony  has  ever  known 
or  has  ever  cared  to  know  about  him  is  this : 

By  a  curious  atavistic  freak  Polatschek  was  bom 
honest.  In  the  little  town  in  southern  Hungary 
from  which  he  came  his  great-grandfather  had  been 
a  highwayman,  his  grandfather  had  been  executed 
for  murder,  his  father  was  serving  a  long  sentence 
for  burglary,  and  his  two  younger  brothers  were 
on  the  black  list  of  the  police.  And  so,  when  it  was 
announced  that  one  of  the  Polatscheks  was  coming 
to  New  York,  Houston  Street  society  drew  in  its 
latch-string,  and  one  of  the  storekeepers  even  went 
so  far  as  to  tell  the  story  to  a  police  detective. 
This,  however,  was  frowned  Upon,  for  Goulash 
Avenue — as  the  Hungarians  laughingly  call 
Houston  Street — loves  to  keep  its  secrets  to 
itself. 

There  is  no  need  to  describe  the  appearance  of 
Polatschek ;  it  is  extremely  uninteresting.  He  has 
a  weak  chin,  and  when  he  is  sober  he  is  very  timid. 
A  Hungarian  does  not  easily  make  friends  outside 
his  own  people,  and  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Pola- 
tschek had  no  friends  at  all. 
[44.] 


I  ,.,...„„ 

^B     How  Polatschek  lived  none  but   himself  knew. 

^PSomewhere  in  Rivington  Street  he  had  a  room  where, 
it  was  once  said,  he  kept  books,  though  no  one  knew 
what  kind  of  books  they  were.  For  a  few  hours 
every  day  he  worked  at  cigarmaking,  earning  just 
enough  money  to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  He 
was,  in  short,  as  uninteresting  a  man  as  you  could 
find,  and  all  who  knew  him  shunned  him.  Night 
after  night  he  would  sit  in  Natzi's  cafe,  where  the 
gipsies  play  on  Thursdays,  drinking  slivovitz — 
which  is  the  last  stage.  He  would  drink,  drink, 
drink,  and  never  a  word  to  a  soul.  On  music  nights 
he  would  drink  more  than  usual  and  his  eyes  would 
fill  with  tears.  We  all  used  to  think  they  were 
maudlin  tears,  but  we  had  grown  accustomed  to 
Polatschek  and  his  strange  habits,  and  nobody  paid 
attention  to  him. 

.  •  •  •  • 

It  was  music  night  at  Natzi's,  and  Polatschek 
was  sitting  close  to  the  gipsies  with  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  leader.  He  had  been  drinking  a  little 
more  than  usual,  and  I  marvelled  that  a  man  in  his 
maudlin  condition  should  take  such  a  deep  interest 

in  music. 

[45] 


I 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

They  were  playing  the  "  Rakoczy  March,"  which 
only  the  Hungarians  know  how  to  play,  and 
Polatschek  was  swaying  his  head  in  time  to  the 
melody. 

It  seemed  so  strange,  this  friendless,  hopeless 
man's  love  for  music,  so  thoroughly  foreign  to  his 
dreary,  barren  nature  as  I  had  pictured  it  in  my 
mind,  that  when  the  gipsies  had  finished  I  spoke 
to  him. 

"  That  was  beautiful,  was  it  not  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  in  surprise,  his  eyes  wide  open, 
and  after  gazing  at  me  for  a  moment  he  shook  his 
head. 

"  No,  that  was  not  beautiful.  The  '  Rakoczy 
March '  is  the  greatest  march  in  the  world,  but 
these  gipsies  do  not  know  how  to  play  it.  They 
cannot  play.  They  have  no  life,  no  soul.  They 
play  it  as  if  they  were  machines." 

Startled  by  his  vehemence,  I  could  only  murmur, 
"Oh!" 

"  Look !  "  he  exclaimed,  rising  in  agitation.  He 
took  up  the  leader's  violin  and  bow.  "  Listen ! 
This  is  the  *  Rakoczy  ' !  " 

The  gipsy  leader  had  sprung  to  his  feet,  but 
[46] 


I  A    RIFT    IN    THE   CLOUD 

at  the  first  tone  of  the  vIoHn  he  stood  as  if  petrified. 
A  silence  had  fallen  upon  the  room.  With  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  mine,  his  lips  pressed  firmly  together, 
Polatschek  played  the  "  Rakoczy  March."  The 
guests  were  staring  at  him  in  blank  amazement. 
I  The  gipsies,  with  sparkling  eyes,  were  listening  to 
those  magic  strains,  but  Polatschek  was  unmindful 
of  it  all,  and — I  felt  proud  because  he  was  playing 
that  march  for  me.  I  have  heard  Sarasate  play 
the  "  Rakoczy  March."  I  have  heard  Mme.  Urso 
try  it,  and  I  have  heard  Remenyi,  who,  being  a 
Hungarian,  played  it  best  of  them  all.  But  I 
had  never  heard  it  played  as  Polatschek  played 
it. 

As  I  saw  the  hues  in  that  face  grow  sharper, 
saw  the  body  quiver  with  patriotic  ardour,  those 
ringing,  rhythmic  tones  sang  of  the  tramp,  tramp, 
tramp  of  armies,  of  cavalcades  of  horses,  of  the  clash 
and  clangour  of  battle.  Then  it  all  grew  fainter 
and  fainter  as  if  the  armies  were  vanishing  in  the 
distance,  and  the  sad  strains  of  the  undersong  rose 
to  the  surface  of  the  melody  and  I  heard  that  sob- 
bing appeal  which  lies  hidden  somewhere  in  every 
Hungarian  song.  It  died  away,  there  was  a  mo- 
[47] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

merit's  silence — Polatschek  remained  standing, 
looking  at  me — then  a  mighty  shout  went  up. 

"  Ujra!  Ujra!  "  they  cried.  It  was  an  encore 
they  wanted. 

But  Polatschek  had  resumed  his  seat  and  his  sli- 
vovitz,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  was  very  drunk. 


[48] 


OUT    OF    HIS    ORBIT 


OUT    OF    HIS    ORBIT 

In  order  to  emphasise  the  moral  of  a  tale,  it  is 
safer  to  state  it  at  the  very  beginning.  The  moral 
of  the  story  of  Rosenstein  is  this:  Woe  be  to  the 
man  who  attempts  to  teach  his  wife  a  lesson !  Woe 
be  to  him  if  he  fail !  Woe  be  to  him  if  he  succeed ! 
Whatever  happens,  woe  be  to  him!  In  witness 
whereof  this  tale  is  offered. 

Mrs.  Rosenstein  wanted  one  room  papered  in 
red,  and  Mr.  Rosenstein  held  that  the  yellow  paper 
that  adorned  the  walls  was  good  enough  for  an- 
other year. 

"  But,"  argued  his  wife,  "  we  have  laid  by  a  little 
money  in  the  past  years,  and  we  can  easily  afford 
it.  And  I  love  red  paper  on  the  walls."  Rosen- 
stein, by  the  way,  owned  a  dozen  tenement  houses, 
had  no  children,  and  led  a  life  of  strict  economy 
on  perhaps  one-fiftieth  of  his  income.  Besides, 
Rosenstein  owned  a  lucrative  little  dry-goods  store 
that  brought  in  more  money.     And  he  had  never 

[51] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

smoked  and  had  never  drunk.  But  the  more  his 
wife  insisted  upon  the  red  paper  the  more  stub- 
bom  he  became  in  his  opposition,  until,  one  morn- 
ing after  a  heated  discussion  in  which  he  had  failed 
disastrously  to  bring  forth  any  reasonable  argu- 
ment to  support  his  side  of  the  case,  he  suddenly 
and  viciously  yielded. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  putting  on  his  hat  and 
starting  for  the  door ;  "  get  your  red  paper.  Have 
your  own  way.  But  from  this  moment  forth  I  be- 
come a  drinker." 

Mrs.  Rosenstein  turned  pale.  "  Husband ! 
Husband ! "  she  cried  entreatingly,  turning  toward 
him  with  clasped  hands.  But  Rosenstein,  without 
another  word,  strode  out  of  the  room  and  slammed 
the  door  behind  him.  Mrs.  Rosenstein  sank  into 
a  chair,  appalled.  The  pride  of  her  life  had  been 
that  her  husband  had  never  touched  liquor,  and  the 
one  disquieting  thought  that  from  time  to  time 
came  to  worry  her  was  that  some  day  he  might  fall. 
And  she  felt  that  the  first  fall  would  mark  the  be- 
ginning of  ruin.  She  had  known  men  whose 
habits  of  drink  had  undermined  their  business 
capacity.  Her  husband,  she  knew,  was  close,  and 
[52] 


I 


OUT   OF    HIS   ORBIT 

had  a  mania  for  accumulating  money.  But  once 
the  demon  of  drink  entered  into  his  life  she  felt 
that  all  this  would  change.  He  would  become  a 
spendthrift.  He  would  squander  all  that  he  had 
saved.  They  would  be  homeless — perhaps  they 
would  starve.  And  he  was  about  to  take  the  first 
step.  Her  heart  was  almost  broken.  To  follow 
him  she  knew  would  be  worse  than  useless.  He 
was  stubborn — she  had  learned  that — and  there 
was  nothing  for  her  to  do  but  to  accept  the  in- 
evitable. 

Rosenstein  meanwhile  walked  to  the  nearest 
saloon.  He  had  passed  the  place  a  thousand  times, 
but  had  never  entered  before.  The  bartender's 
eyes  opened  in  mild  surprise  to  see  so  patriarchal 
a  ^gure  standing  in  front  of  the  bar  glaring  at 
him  so  determinedly. 

"  Give  me  a  drink !  "  demanded  Rosenstein. 

"  What  kind  of  a  drink  do  you  want  ?  "  asked 
the  bartender. 

Rosenstein  looked  bewildered.  He  did  not  know 
one  drink  from  another.  He  looked  at  the  row  of 
bottles  behind  the  counter,  and  then  his  face 
lit  up. 

[53] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 
"  That  bottle  over  there — the  big  black  one." 
It    was    Benedictine.      The    bartender    poured 
some  of  it  into  a  tiny  liqueur  glass,  but  Rosenstein 
frowned. 

"  I  want  a  drink,  I  said,  not  a  drop.  Fill  me 
a  big  glass." 

The  wise  bartender  does  not  dispute  with  his 
patrons  as  long  as  they  have  the  means  of  pay- 
ing for  what  they  order.  Without  a  word  he  filled 
a  small  goblet  with  the  thick  cordial,  and  Rosen- 
stein, without  a  word,  gulped  it  down.  The  bar- 
tender watched  him  in  open-mouthed  amazement, 
charged  him  for  four  drinks,  and  then,  as  Rosen- 
stein walked  haughtily  out  of  the  place,  murmured 
to  himself:  "  Well,  I'll  be  hanged!  " 

Rosenstein  walked  aimlessly  but  joyfully  down 
the  street,  bowing  to  right  and  to  left  at  the  many 
people  who  smiled  upon  him  in  so  friendly  a 
fashion.  When  he  came  to  the  corner  he  was  sur- 
prised to  see  that  the  whole  character  of  the  street 
had  changed  over  night.  Then  it  seemed  to  him 
that  a  regiment  of  soldiers  came  marching  up, 
each  man  holding  out  a  flowing  bowl  to  him,  that 
he  fell  into  line  and  joined  the  march,  and  that 

[54] 


I 


OUT   OF    HIS   ORBIT 

they  all  found  themselves  in  a  brilliant,  dazzling 
glare  of  several  hundred  suns.  Then  they  shot 
him  from  the  mouth  of  a  cannon,  and  when  he 
regained  consciousness  he  recognised  the  features 
of  Mrs.  Rosenstein  and  felt  the  grateful  coolness 
of  the  wet  towels  she  was  tenderly  laying  upon  his 
fevered  head.     It  was  nearly  midnight. 

Rosenstein  groaned  in  anguish. 

"  What  has  happened  .^^  "  he  asked. 

"  You  have  been  a  drinker,"  his  wife  replied, 
"  but  it  is  all  over  now.  Take  a  nice  long  sleep 
and  we  will  never  speak  of  it  again.  And  the  yel- 
low paper  will  do  for  another  year." 

Rosenstein  watched  the  flaming  pinwheels  and 
skyrockets  that  were  shooting  before  his  vision  for 
a  while;  then  a  horrible  idea  came  to  him. 

"  See  how  much  money  I  have  in  my  pockets," 
he  said.     His  wife  counted  it. 

"  One  dollar  and  forty  cents,"  she  said.  A  sigh 
of  relief  rose  from  Rosenstein's  lips. 

"  It's  all  right,  then.  I  only  had  two  dollars  when 

I    went    out."     Then    he    fell    peacefully    asleep. 

The  next  morning  he  faced  his  wife  and  pointed 

out  to  her  the  awful  lesson  he  had  taught  her. 
[55] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

"  You  now  see  what  your  stubbornness  can  drive 
me  to,"  he  said.  "  I  have  squandered  sixty  cents 
and  lost  a  whole  day's  work  in  the  store  merely  to 
convince  you  that  it  is  all  nonsense  to  put  red 
paper  on  the  walls."  But  his  wife  was  clinging 
to  him  and  crying  and  vowing  that  she  would  never 
again  insist  upon  anything  that  would  add  to  their 
expenses.  And  then  they  kissed  and  made  up, 
and  Rosenstein  went  to  his  store,  somewhat  weak 
in  the  legs  and  somewhat  dizzy,  and  with  a  queer 
feeling  in  his  head,  but  elated  that  he  had  won  a 
complete  mastery  over  his  stubborn  spouse  so 
cheaply. 

The  store  was  closed. 

Rosenstein  gazed  blankly  at  the  barred  door  and 
windows.  It  was  the  bookkeeper's  duty  to  arrive  at 
eight  o'clock  and  open  the  store.  It  was  now  nine 
o'clock.  Where  was  the  bookkeeper.?  And  where 
were  the  three  saleswomen?  And  the  office-boy? 
As  quickly  as  he  could,  Rosenstein  walked  to  the 
bookkeeper's  house.  He  found  that  young  man 
dressing  himself  and  whistling  cheerfully.  The 
bookkeeper  looked  amazed  when  he  beheld  his  em- 
ployer. 

[56] 


POUT  OF  HIS  ORBIT 
"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  "  demanded 
Rosenstein.  "Why  are  you  not  at  the  store? 
Where  are  the  keys  ?  " 
Hb  The  young  man's  face  fell.  He  looked  at 
Rosenstein  curiously.  Then,  "  Were  you  only 
joking?"  he  asked. 

"  Joking?  "  repeated  Rosenstein,  more  amazed 
than  ever.  "  Me?  How?  When?  Are  you 
crazy  ?  " 

"  You  told  us  all  yesterday  to  close  the  store  and 
go  and  have  a  good  time,  and  that  we  needn't  come 
back  for  a  week." 

Rosenstein   steadied   himself   against   the   door. 
He  tried  to  speak,  but  something  was  choking  him. 
Finally,   pointing  to  his  breast,  he  managed  to 
gasp  faintly: 
K      "Me?" 
,  The  clerk  nodded. 

"And  what  else  did  I  do?"  asked  Rosenstein, 
timidly. 
Up       "  You  gave  us  each  five  dollars  and — and  asked 
us  to  sing  something  and — what  is  it,  Mr.  Rosen- 
stein.    Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  Go — go !  "   gasped  Rosenstein.     "  Get  every- 
[57] 


I 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 

body  and  open  the  store  again.  Quickly.  And  tell 
them  all  not  to  speak  of  what  happened  yesterday. 
They — ^they — can — they  can  (gulp)  keep  the 
money.  But  the  store  must  be  opened  and  nobody 
must  tell." 

He  staggered  out  into  the  street.  A  policeman 
saw  him  clutching  a  lamp-post  to  steady  him- 
self. 

"  Are  you  sick,  Mr.  Rosenstein  ? "  he  asked. 
"  You  look  pale.     Can't  I  get  you  a  drink?  " 

Rosenstein  recoiled  in  horror.  "  I  am  not  a 
drinker !  "  he  cried.  Then  he  walked  off,  his  head 
in  a  whirl,  his  heart  sick  with  a  sudden  dread.  He 
took  a  long  walk,  and  when  he  felt  that  he  had 
regained  control  of  himself  he  returned  to  the 
store.  It  was  open,  and  everything  was  going  on 
as  usual.  And  there  was  a  man — a  stranger — 
waiting  for  him.  When  he  beheld  Rosenstein  the 
stranger's  face  lit  up. 

"  Good-morning !  "  he  cried,  cheerfully.  "  Sorry 
to  trouble  you  so  early,  but  this  is  rent  day,  and 
I  need  the  money." 

Rosenstein  turned  pale.  The  saleswomen  had 
turned  their  heads  away  with  a  discretion  that  was 
[58] 


I 


I 


OUT   OF    HIS    ORBIT 

painfully  apparent.  Rosenstein's  eyes  blinked 
rapidly  several  times.  Then  he  said,  huskily, 
"What  money.?" 

The  stranger  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  Don't  you  remember  this.?  "  he  asked,  holding 
out  a  card.     Rosenstein  looked  at  him. 

"  Yes,  this  is  my  card.     But  what  of  it.?  " 

"  Look  on  the  other  side."  Rosenstein  looked. 
Staring  him  in  the  face  was :  "  I  owe  Mister 
Casey  thirty-six  dollars.  I.  Rosenstein."  The 
writing  was  undeniably  his.  And  suddenly  there 
came  to  him  a  dim,  distant,  dreamlike  recollection 
of  standing  upon  a  mountain-top  with  a  band  of 
music  playing  around  him  and  a  Mr.  Casey  hand- 
ing  him  some  money. 

"  I  thought  that  was  an  old  dream,"  he  mut- 
tered to  himself.  Then,  turning  to  the  stranger, 
he  asked,  "Who  are  you?" 

"Me?"  said  the  stranger,  in  surprise;  "why, 
I'm  Casey — T.  Casey,  of  Casey's  cafe.  You  told 
me  to  come  as  soon  as  I  needed  the " 

"  Hush !  "  cried  Rosenstein.     "  Never  mind  any 

more."     He  opened  a  safe,  took  out  the  money, 

and  paid  Mr.  Casey.     When  the  latter  had  gone 
[59] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 

Rosenstein  called  the  bookkeeper  aside,  and,  in  a 
fearful  tone,  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"  Ach !  I  am  so  glad  when  I  think  that  I  didn't 
open  the  safe  yesterday."  The  bookkeeper  looked 
dt  him  in  surprise. 

"  You  tried,  sir,"  he  said.  ''  Don't  you  remem- 
ber when  you  said,  '  The  numbers  won't  stand 
still,'  and  asked  me  if  I  couldn't  open  it?  And  I 
told  you  I  didn't  know  the  combination  ?  " 

Rosenstein  gazed  upon  him  in  horror.  The 
room  became  close.  He  went  out  and  stood  in  the 
doorway,  gasping  for  breath.  In  the  street, 
directly  in  front  of  the  store,  stood  a  white  horse. 
A  seedy-looking  individual  stood  on  the  curb  hold- 
ing the  halter  and  gazing  expectantly  at  Rosen- 
stein. 

"  Good-morning,   boss ! "   he    cried,    cheerfully. 

Rosenstein  glared  at  him.  "  Go  away !  "  he  cried. 
"  I  don't  allow  horses  to  stand  in  front  of  my  store. 
Take  him  somewhere  else." 

"  I'll  take  him  anywhere  ye  say,  boss,"  said  the 

man,  touching  his  cap.     "  But  ye  haven't  paid  for 

him  yet." 

Rosenstein's  heart  sank.     Then  suddenly  a  wave 
[60] 


I 


OUT   OF    HIS   ORBIT 
of   bitter    resentment    surged    through    him.     He 
strode  determinedly  toward  the  man. 

"  Did  I  buy  that  horse?  "  he  asked,  fiercely. 

"  Sure  ye  did,"  answered  the  man ;  "  for  yer 
milk  store." 

"  But  I  haven't  got  a  milk  store,"  answered 
Rosenstein.     The  man's  eyes  blinked. 

"  Don't  I  know  it.?  "  he  cried.  "  Didn't  ye  tell 
me  so  yerself .?  But  didn't  ye  say  ye  wuz  going  to 
start  one  ?  Didn't  ye  say  that  this  horse  was  as  white 
as  milk,  and  that  if  I'd  sell  him  to  ye  y'd  open 
a  milk  store?  Didn't  ye  make  me  take  him  out  of 
me  wagon  and  run  him  up  and  down  the  street  f er 
ye?  Didn't  ye  make  me  take  all  the  kids  on  the 
block  fer  a  ride?     Am  I  a  liar?     Huh?  " 

Rosenstein  walked  unsteadily  into  the  store 
and  threw  his  arm  around  the  bookkeeper's 
neck. 

"  Get  rid  of  him.  For  God's  sake  get  him  away 
from  here !  Give  him  some  money — as  little  as  you 
can.  Only  get  him  away.  Some  day  I  will  in- 
crease your  salary.  I  am  sick  to-day.  I  cannot 
do  any  business.     I  am  going  home."     He  started 

for  the  rear  door,  but  stopped  at  the  threshold. 
[61] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

"  Don't  take  the  horse,  whatever  you  do,"  he  said. 
Then  he  went  home. 

Mrs.  Rosenstein  was  sitting  on  the  doorsteps 
knitting  and  beaming  with  joy.  When  she  saw 
her  husband  she  ran  toward  him.  The  tears  stood 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Dearest  husband !  Dear,  generous  husband ! 
To  punish  me  for  my  stubbornness  and  then  to  fill 
me  with  happiness  by  gratifying  the  dearest  wish 
of  my  heart!  It  is  too  much!  I  do  not  deserve 
it !     One  room  is  all  I  wanted !  " 

Rosenstein's  heart  nearly  stopped  beating. 
Upon  his  ears  fell  a  strange  noise  of  scraping  and 
tearing  that  came  from  the  doorway  of  his  house. 

"Wh-wh-what  is  it.?"  he  asked,  feebly.  His 
wife  smiled. 

"  The  paper-hangers  are  already  at  work,"  she 
said,  joyfully.  "  They  said  you  insisted  that  all 
the  work  should  be  finished  in  one  day,  and  they've 
sent  twenty  men  here." 

Mr.  Rosenstein  sank  wearily  down  upon  the 
steps.  The  power  of  speech  had  left  him.  Like- 
wise the  power  of  thought.  His  brain  felt  like  a 
maelstrom    of    c'haotic,    incoherent    images.      He 

[63] 


I 


OUT   OF    HIS   ORBIT 

felt  that  he  was  losing  his  mind.  A  brisk-looking 
young  man,  with  a  roll  of  red  wall-paper  in  his 
hand,  came  down  the  steps  and  doffed  his  hat  to 
Rosenstein. 

"Good-morning!"  he  cried,  cheerfully.  (The 
salutation  "  Good-morning  "  was  beginning  to  go 
through  Rosenstein  like  a  knife  each  time  he  heard 
it.)  "  I  did  it.  I  didn't  think  I  could  do  it,  but 
I  did.  I  tell  you,  sir,  there  isn't  another  paper- 
hanger  in  the  city  who  could  fill  a  job  like  that  at 
such  short  notice.  Every  single  room  in  the  house ! 
And  red  paper,  too,  which  has  to  be  handled  so 
carefully,  and  makes  the  work  take  so  much  longer. 
But  the  job  will  be  finished  to-night,  sir." 

He  walked  off  with  the  light  tread  and  proud 
mien  of  a  man  who  has  accomplished  something. 
Rosenstein  looked  after  him  bewildered.  Then  he 
turned  to  his  wife,  but  when  he  saw  the  smile  and 
the  happy  look  that  lit  up  her  face  he  turned  away 
and  sighed.     How  could  he  tell  her?  " 

"  My  love,"  said  Mrs.  Rosenstein,  after  a  long 
pause,  "  promise  me  one  thing  and  I  will  be  happy 
as  long  as  I  live." 

Rosenstein  was  silent.     In  a  vague  way  he  was 
[6S] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 
wondering  if  this  promise  was  based  upon  some 
deed  of  yesterday  that  had  not  yet  been  revealed 
to  him. 

"  Promise  me,"  his  wife  went  on,  "  that,  no  mat- 
ter what  happens,  you  will  never  become  a  drinker 
again." 

Rosenstein  sat  bolt  upright.  He  tried  to  speak. 
A  hundred  different  words  and  phrases  crowded  to 
his  lips,  struggling  for  utterance.  He  became 
purple  with  suppressed  excitement.  In  a  wild  en- 
deavour to  utter  that  promise  so  forcibly,  so  em- 
phatically, and  so  fiercely  as  not  only  to  assure  his 
wife,  but  to  relieve  his  suffering  feelings,  Rosen- 
stein could  only  sputter  incoherently.  Then,  sud- 
denly realising  the  futility  of  the  endeavour,  and 
feeling  that  his  whole  vocabulary  was  inadequate 
to  express  the  vehemence  of  his  emotion,  he  gurgled 
helplessly : 

"  Yes.     I  promise.'* 

And  he  kept  the  promise. 


[64] 


THE    POISONED    CHAI 


THE    POISONED    CHAI 

Bernstein  sat  in  the  furthest  corner  of  the  cafe, 
brooding.  The  fiercest  torments  that  plague  the 
human  heart  were  rioting  within  him,  as  if  they 
would  tear  him  asunder.  Bernstein  was  of  an  im- 
pulsive, overbearing  nature,  mature  as  far  as  years 
went,  yet  with  the  untrained,  inexperienced  emo- 
tions of  a  savage.  To  such  natures  the  "  no  "  from 
a  woman's  lips  comes  like  a  blow ;  the  sudden  knowl- 
edge that  those  same  hps  can  smile  brightly  upon 
another  follows  like  molten  lead. 

That  whole  afternoon  Bernstein  had  suffered  the 
wildest  tortures  of  jealousy.  Had  Natzi  been  a 
younger  man  Bernstein's  resentment  might  not 
have  turned  so  hotly  upon  him.  Yet  Natzi  was 
almost  of  his  own  age,  a  weak-faced  creature,  with 
an  eternal  smile,  incapable  of  intense  feeling,  igno- 
rant of  even  the  faintest  shade  of  that  passion 
which  he  (Bernstein)  had  laid  so  humbly,  so  ten- 
derly at  her  feet — and  it  was  Natzi  she  loved! 
[6T] 


THE   POISONED   CHAI 

Bernstein's  hand  darted  to  his  inner  pocket  and 
came  forth  clutching  a  tiny  object  upon  which  he 
gazed  with  the  look  of  a  fiend. 

"  I  may  not  have  her,"  he  murmured,  "  but  she 
will  never  belong  to  him." 

He  held  the  tiny  thing  in  his  lap,  below  the  level 
of  the  table,  so  that  none  other  might  see  it,  and 
looked  at  it  intently.  It  was  a  small  phial ;  it  con- 
tained some  colourless  liquid. 

The  thought  entered  his  brain  to  drain  the  con- 
tents of  that  phial  himself  and  put  an  end  to  the 
fierce  pain  that  was  eating  away  his  heart.  Would 
it  not  be  for  the  best.?  There  was  no  one  to  care. 
The  world  held  no  one  but  her ;  perhaps  his  death 
would  bring  the  tears  to  those  big  brown  eyes ;  she 
might  even  come  and  kiss  his  cold  forehead.  But 
after  that  Natzi  would  be  master  of  those  kisses, 
upon  Natzi's  lips  hers  would  be  pressed  all  the  live- 
long day. 

The  blood  surged  to  his  brain;  he  clutched 
the  table  as  though  he  would  squeeze  the  wood 
to  pulp;  before  his  eyes  rose  a  mist — a  red 
mist — ^the  red  of  blood.  Slowly  this  mist  cleared 
away,  and  the  face  and  form  of  Natzi  loomed  up 
[68] 


H  before  him — Natzi,  with  patient,  boyish  eyes,  smil- 

"  It  is  the  third  time  that  I've  said  '  Good-even- 
ing.' Have  you  been  sleeping  with  your  eyes 
I  open?" 
"  No.  No.  Just  thinking,"  said  Bernstein, 
talking  rapidly.  "  Sit  down.  Here,  opposite  me. 
The  light  hurts  my  eyes.  Come,  let  us  have  some 
chai.  Here,  waiter !  Two  chais.  Have  them  hot, 
with  plenty  of  rum." 

"  You  seem  nervous,  Bernstein.  Aren't  you 
well.?  "  asked  Natzi,  solicitously. 

"  Oh,  smoking  too  much.  But  let  us  talk  about 
yourself.  How  is  the  wood-carving  business.?  Any 
better.?  " 

Natzi  shook  his  head,  ruefully.  "  Worse,"  he 
'  answered.  "  They're  doing  everything  by  ma- 
chinery these  days,  and  the  machines  seem  to  be 
improving  all  the  time.  The  work  is  all  mechanical 
now.  The  only  real  pleasure  I  get  out  of  my  tools 
is  at  night  when  I  am  home.  Then  I  can  carve  the 
things  I  like — things  that  don't  sell." 

The  waiter  brought  two  cups  of  chai,  with  the 
blue  flames  leaping  brightly  from  the  burning  rum 

[69] 


THE    POISONED   CHAI 

on  the  surface.  Bernstein's  eyes  were  intent  upon 
the  flames. 

"  I  have  not  yet  congratulated  you,"  he  said. 

He  did  not  see  the  look  that  came  into  Natzi's 
eyes — a  look  of  tenderness,  of  earnestness,  a  look 
that  Bernstein  had  never  seen  there,  although  he 
had  known  Natzi  many  years. 

"  Yes,"  said  Natzi,  thoughtfully.  "  I  am  to  be 
congratulated.  It  is  more  than  I  deserve.  I  am 
not  worthy." 

Bernstein's  gaze  was  fastened  upon  the  flames. 
They  were  dancing  brightly  upon  the  amber  liquid. 

"  She  is  so  beautiful,  so  sweet,  so  pure,"  Natzi 
went  on.  "  To  think  that  all  that  happiness  is  for 
me!" 

The  flames  changed  from  blue  to  red.  Bern- 
stein's brain  whirled.  He  felt  a  wild  impulse  to 
throw  himself  upon  his  companion  and  seize  him  by 
the  throat  and  strangle  him,  and  cry  aloud  so  that 
all  could  hear  it :  "  You  shall  never  have  that  hap- 
piness. She  belongs  to  me.  She  is  part  of  my  life, 
part  of  myself.  You  cannot  understand  her.  I 
alone  of  all  men  understand  her.    Every  thought  of 

my  brain,  every  impulse  of  my  being,  every  fibre  of 

[70] 


I  ..,„....,... 

my  body  beats  responsive  to  her.  She  was  made 
for  me.     No  other  shall  have  her !  " 

Then  the  thought  of  the  phial  in  his  hand  re- 
■  curred  to  his  mind  and  he  became  calm.  The  flames 
died  out,  and  Natzi  slowly  drained  his  cup.  Bern- 
stein watched  him  with  bloodshot  eyes.  Looking 
up  he  met  Natzi's  gaze  bent  upon  him  anx- 
iously. 

"  You  are  not  well,  Bernstein.    Let  us  go  home." 

"  No,  no,"  Bernstein  said,  quickly.  "  It  is  just 
nervousness.  I  have  smoked  too  much."  He  made 
a  feeble  attempt  at  a  smile.  "  Come,"  said  he, 
draining  his  cup.  "  Let  us  have  another.  The 
last.  The  very  last.  And  after  that  we  will  drink 
no  more  chai." 

Two  more  cups  were  set  before  them. 

"  Look,"  said  Bernstein,  "  is  that  lightning  in 
the  sky.?" 

Natzi  turned  his  head  toward  the  open  doorway. 

Swiftly,  yet  stealthily,  Bernstein's  hand  stretched 

forth  until  it  touched  the  blue  flames  that  danced 

on  Natzi's  cup,  hovered  there  a  moment,  and  then 

was  withdrawn  just  as  Natzi  turned  around.     His 

fingers  had  been  scorched. 

[71] 


THE   POISONED   CHAI 

"  No,  I  see  no  lightning.  The  stars  are  shin- 
ing." 

"Let  us  drink,"  said  Bernstein.  "The  last 
drink." 

"  I  am  not  a  fire-eater,"  said  Natzi,  smiling. 
"  Let  us  wait  at  least  until  the  rum  burns  out." 

Bernstein  lowered  the  flaming  cup  that,  in  his 
eagerness,  he  had  raised  toward  his  lips  and  looked 
at  Natzi.    Malice  gleamed  in  his  eyes. 

"  Yes.    Let  it  cool.    Then  we  will  drink  a  toast." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Natzi.  "  It  shall  be 
a  toast  to  her.  A  toast  to  the  sweetest  woman  in 
the  world." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Once  or  twice  Natzi 
glanced  hesitatingly,  at  his  companion,  who  sat 
with  bowed  head,  his  eyes  intent  upon  the  flames 
that  leaped  so  brightly  from  his  cup.  Then  Natzi 
spoke,  slowly  at  first,  but  gradually  more  rapidly, 
and  more  animatedly  as  the  intensity  of  his  emo- 
tion mastered  him. 

"  Do  you  know,  dear  friend,"  he  began,  "  there 

was  a  time  when  I  thought  she  loved  you  ?    We  were 

together  so  much,  the  three  of  us,  and  she  had  so 

many  opportunities  to  know  you — ^to  know  you  as 
[72] 


I 


I 


CHILDREN  OF  MEN 
I  knew  you — ^to  know  your  great,  strong  mind, 
your  tender  heart,  your  steadfastness,  your  gener- 
ous nature,  that  could  harbour  no  unworthy 
thought.  You  pose  as  a  cynic,  as  a  man  who  looks 
down  upon  the  petty  things  that  make  up  life  for 
most  of  us,  but  I — I,  who  have  lived  with  you, 
struggled  with  you,  known  so  many  of  the  trials 
and  heart-breakings  of  everyday  life  with  you— 
I  know  you  better.  True,  you  have  no  love  for 
women,  and  I  often  wondered  how  you  could  be  so 
blind  to  her  sweetness,  and  to  the  charm  that  seemed 
to  fill  the  room  whenever  we  three  were  together. 
But  I  never  took  my  eyes  from  her  face,  and  when 
I  saw  with  what  breathless  interest  she  listened 
whenever  you  spoke,  whenever  you  told  us  of  your 
plans  for  uplifting  the  down-trodden,  of  your  in- 
nermost thoughts  and  hopes  and  feelings,  I  read  in 
her  eyes  a  fondness  for  you  that  filled  me  with 
despair." 

Bernstein  was  breathing  heavily.  His  lips 
quivered ;  his  face  twitched ;  the  blood  had  mounted 
to  his  cheeks.  His  eyes  were  downcast,  fastened 
upon  the  blue  flames  of  the  chai,  dancing  and  leap- 
ing in  fantastic  shapes. 

[73] 


THE  POISONED  CHAI 
"  That  time  you  were  sick — do  you  remember  ? 
When  the  doctor  said  there  was  no  hope  on  earth, 
when  everyone  felt  that  the  end  had  come,  when 
you  lay  for  days  white  and  still,  hardly  breathing, 
with  the  pallor  of  death  upon  your  face — do  you 
remember?  And  I  nursed  you — sat  at  your  bed- 
side through  four  days  and  four  nights  without  a 
minute's  rest.  And  then,  when  the  doctor  said  the 
crisis  had  passed  and  you  would  get  well,  I  fainted 
away  from  sheer  weakness — do  you  remem- 
ber? " 

Perspiration  in  huge  drops  was  trickling  slowly 
down  Bernstein's  forehead.  His  lips  were  dry. 
His  teeth  were  tightly  clenched. 

"  And  you  thought  I  had  done  it  all  for  friend- 
ship's sake,  and  I  listened  to  your  outpouring  of 
gratitude,  taking  it  all  for  myself,  without  a  word 
— without  a  word !  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  it  was  hate- 
ful to  deceive  you ;  but  how  could  I  tell  the  truth  ? 
But  now  I  have  no  shame  in  telling  it.  I  did  it  for 
her.  All  for  her.  To  save  you  for  her.  That  was 
the  only  thought  in  my  poor,  whirling  brain  during 
those  long,  weary  days  and  nights.     I  felt  that  if 

you  died  she  would  die.    I  knew  the  intensity  of  her 
[74] 


I 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 
nature,  and  I  knew  that  if  aught  happened  to  the 
man  she  loved  she  would  die  of  grief.    And  now  to 
think  you  never  cared  for  her,  and  that  it  was  I 
whom  she  always  loved !  " 

Natzi  looked  at  the  bowed  head  before  him  with 
tender  smile.     Bernstein  was  trembling. 

"  I  am  glad,  though,  that  all  happened  as  it 
did.  Had  I  nursed  you  only  for  your  own  sake, 
much  as  I  loved  you,  I  might  have  weakened,  my 
strength  might  not  have  held  out.  For  a  man  can 
do  that  for  his  love  which  he  cannot  do  for  himself. 
And,  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  an  excellent  les- 
son for  me  to  learn  to  bear  bitter  disappoint- 
ment." 

The  flames  in  Bernstein's  cup  were  burning  low. 
With  every  breath  of  air  they  flickered  and 
trembled.     They  would  soon  die  out. 

"  Look,"  said  Natzi,  reaching  into  his  pocket. 
"  Look  at  this  little  piece  that  I  carved  during  the 
hours  that  I  sat  at  your  bedside — to  keep  me  awake. 
I  have  carried  it  over  my  heart  ever  since." 

Bernstein  looked  up.     His  eyes  were  frightfully 

bloodshot.     His  face  was  ashen.     In  Natzi's  hand 

he  beheld  a  tiny  carving  in  wood,  fashioned  with 
[75] 


THE    POISONED   CHAI 

exquisite  skill  and  grace,  of  a  woman's  head.  The 
flame  in  Natzi's  cup  caught  a  light  gust  of  air 
that  stirred  for  a  moment,  leaped  brightly,  as  if 
on  purpose  to  illumine  the  features  of  the  carved 
image,  then  flickered  and  went  out.  Bernstein  had 
recognised  the  likeness.  Those  features  were 
burning  in  his  brain. 

"  Every  night  since  then  I  have  set  this  image 
before  me,  and  I  have  prayed  to  God  to  always  keep 
her  as  sweet,  as  pure,  and  as  beautiful  as  He  keeps 
the  flowers  in  His  woods.  And  every  morning  I 
have  prayed  to  Him  to  fill  her  life  with  sunshine 
and  gladness,  and  to  let  no  sorrow  fall  upon  her. 
And  every  day  I  carried  it  pressed  against  my  heart 
and  I  felt  sustained  and  strengthened.  Ah,  Bern- 
stein, God  is  good!  He  gave  her  to  me!  He 
brought  about  the  revelation  that  her  heart  was 
mine,  her  sweetness,  her  beauty — all  were  mine. 
Come,  comrade,  we  have  gone  through  many  a 
struggle  together.  Let  us  drink  a  toast — ^you  shall 
name  it ! " 

Natzi  held  his  cup  aloft.     With  a  hoarse  cry 
Bernstein  half  rose  from  his  seat,  swiftly  reached 
forward,  and  tore  the  cup  from  Natzi's  grasp. 
[76] 


I 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

"To  her!"  he  cried.  "To  her!  May  God 
preserve  her  and  forgive  me ! " 

He  drained  the  cup,  stared  wildly  at  the  aston- 
ished countenance  of  Natzi,  and,  after  a  moment, 
during  which  he  swayed  slightly  from  side  to  side, 
fell  forward  upon  the  table,  motionless. 


[77] 


URIM    AND    THUMMIM 


I 


URIM    AND    THUMMIM 

The  hall  was  packed  to  the  point  of  suffocation, 
with  thousands  of  gaunt,  hollow-eyed  strikers, 
who  hung  upon  the  speaker's  impassioned  words 
with  breathless  interest.  He  was  an  eloquent 
speaker,  with  a  pale,  delicate  face,  and  dark  eyes 
that  shone  like  burning  coals. 

He  had  been  speaking  for  an  hour,  exhorting  the 
strikers  to  stand  firm,  and  to  bear  in  patience  their 
burden  of  suffering.  When  he  dwelt  on  the  pros- 
pect of  victory,  and  portrayed  the  ultimate  mo- 
ment of  triumph  that  would  be  theirs,  if  only  they 
stood  steadfast,  a  wave  of  enthusiasm  surged 
through  the  audience,  and  they  burst  into  wild 
cheers. 

"  Remember,     fellow-workmen,"    he    went    on, 

*'  that  we  have  fought  before.     Remember  that  we 

have  suffered  before.    And  remember  that  we  have 

won  before. 

*'  How  many  are  there  of  you  who  can  look  back 
[81] 


CHILDREN  OF  ME  N 
to  the  famous  strike  of  ten  years  ago  ?  Do  you  not 
remember  how,  for  two  months,  we  fought  with  un- 
broken ranks,  and  after  privation  and  distress  far 
beyond  what  we  are  passing  through  to-day,  tri- 
umphed over  our  enemies  and  won  a  glorious  vic- 
tory? It  was  but  a  pittance  that  we  were  striking 
for,  but  the  hfe  of  our  union  was  at  stake.  With 
one  exception,  not  a  man  faltered.  The  story  of 
our  sufferings  only  God  remembers!  But  we  bore 
them  without  a  murmur,  without  complaint.  There 
was  one  dastard — one  traitor,  recreant  to  his  oath — 
but  we  triumphed  in  spite  of  him.  Oh,  my  fellow- 
workers,  let  us " 

But  now  a  mist  gathered  before  my  eyes;  the 
sound  of  his  voice  died  away,  and  all  that  assem- 
blage faded  from  my  sight. 

The  speaker's  words  had  awakened  in  my  mind 
the  memory  of  Urim  and  Thummim;  all  else  was 
instantly  forgotten. 

Urim  was  a  doll  that  had  lost  both  legs  and  an 
arm,  but  its  cheeks,  when  I  first  saw  it,  were  still 
pink,  and,  in  spite  of  its  misfortunes,  it  wore  a  smile 
that  never  faded.    Thummim  was  also  a  doll,  some- 

[82] 


I 


URIM    AND    THUMMIM 

what  more  rugged  than  Urim,  but  gloomy  and 
frowning,  in  spite  of  its  state  of  preservation. 
Koppel  and  Rebecca  agreed  that  Urim  was  by  far 
the  more  interesting  of  the  two,  but  the  two  had 
come  into  the  household  together,  and  to  discard 
Thummim  was  altogether  out  of  the  question. 

Koppel  was  a  cloakmaker,  and  it  was  during  the 
big  strike  that  I  first  met  him.  Of  all  the  members 
of  that  big  trades-union  he  alone  had  continued  to 
work  when  the  strike  was  declared,  and  they  all 
cursed  him.  Pleading  and  threats  alike  were  of  no 
avail  to  induce  him  to  leave  the  shop ;  for  the  paltry 
pittance  that  he  could  earn  he  abandoned  his  union 
and  violated  his  oath  of  affiliation. 

At  every  meeting  he  was  denounced,  his  name 
was  hissed,  he  was  an  outcast  among  his  kind. 

AAHien  I  tapped  upon  his  door  there  was  no  re- 
sponse. I  opened  it  and  beheld  a  child  with  raven 
hair,  so  busily  occupied  with  undressing  a  doll  that 
she  did  not  look  up  until  I  asked ; 

"Is  Mr.  Koppel  in?" 

She  turned  with  a  start  and  gazed  at  me  in  as- 
tonishment. Her  big,  brown  eyes  were  opened 
wide  at  the  apparition  of  a  stranger,  yet  she  did 

[83] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 
not  seem  at  all  alarmed.    After  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion— ^the  door  was  still  open — she  approached  me 
and  held  out  the  doll. 

"  Urim !  "  she  said.  I  took  it,  and  with  a  happy 
smile  she  ran  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  where,  from 
under  a  table,  she  dragged  another  doll. 

"  T'ummim ! "  she  said,  holding  it  out  to  me. 

Then  Koppel  entered  the  room.  He  knew  me, 
although  I  had  never  seen  him  before,  and  readily 
guessed  the  object  of  my  errand. 

"  You  are  from  the  newspaper,"  he  said.  "  You 
want  to  know  why  I  did  not  strike." 

When  the  lamplight  fell  upon  his  countenance 
I  saw  that  he  was  a  miserable-looking  creature, 
servile  in  his  manner,  and  repulsive  to  the  eye.  He 
did  not  appear  to  be  very  strong,  and  the  climb  of 
the  stairs  seemed  to  have  exhausted  him.  He  sat 
down,  and  the  girl  climbed  upon  his  knee.  She 
threw  her  arm  around  his  neck,  and,  looking  up  at 
me  with  a  pretty  smile,  said: 

"  Urim — T'ummim — mine !  " 

Koppel  stroked  her  head,  and  a  look  of  deep  love 

came  into  his  eyes,  and  then  I  began  to  understand. 

"  She  has  no  mother,"  he  said.    "  I  must  pay  a 
[84] 


p 


URIM   AND   THUMMIM 

woman  to  give  her  food.     I — ^I  can't  strike— can 
I?" 

One  of  the  dolls  slipped  from  my  hand  and  fell 
to  the  floor. 

"  Urim ! "  cried  the  little  one,  slipping  hastily 
from  her  father's  knee  to  pick  it  up.  Tenderly  she 
examined  the  doll's  head ;  it  was  unscathed.  Then 
she  looked  up  at  me  and  held  out  her  arms,  and  her 
mouth  formed  into  a  rosebud.  It  was  a  charming 
picture,  altogether  out  of  place — naive,  pictur- 
esque, utterly  delightful. 

"  You  must  go  to  bed,"  said  her  father,  sternly. 
*'  The  foolish  thing  wants  you  to  kiss  her." 

We  became  friends — Koppel,  Rebecca,  Urim, 
Thummim,  and  I. 

"  I  was  reading  the  Pentateuch  aloud  one 
night,"  explained  Koppel,  "  and  she  caught  the 
words  Urim  and  Thummim.  They  pleased  her,  and 
she  has  not  forgotten  them." 

I  have  not  said  that  Rebecca  was  pretty.     She 

was  more  than  pretty ;  there  was  a  light  in  her  baby 

face  that  bespoke  a  glorious  womanhood.     There 

was  a  quiet  dignity  in  her  baby  manners  that  can 

be  found  only  among  the  children  of  the  Orient. 
[85] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

She  was  a  winsome  child,  and  during  the  day,  when 
her  father  was  at  work,  the  children  from  far  and 
near  would  come  to  make  a  pet  of  her. 

The  strike  was  at  an  end,  and  Koppel  was  dis- 
charged. When  I  came  to  the  house  a  few  days 
later  Rebecca  was  eating  a  piece  of  dry  bread,  sav- 
ing a  few  crumbs  for  Urim  and  Thummim.  Kop- 
pel, in  gloomy  silence,  was  watching  her. 

"She  is  not  well,"  he  said.  "She  has  had 
nothing  to  eat  but  bread  for  three  days.  I  must 
send  her  to  an  institution." 

The  next  morning  the  doctor  was  there,  pre- 
scribing for  her  in  a  perfunctory  way,  for  it  was 
merely  a  charity  case.  She  smiled  feebly  when  she 
saw  me,  and  handed  me  a  doll  that  lay  beside  her. 

"  It's  Thummim,"  I  said.  "  Won't  you  give  me 
Urim.?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  She  was  holding 
Urim  against  her  breast. 

•  •  •  •  • 

It  happened  ten  years  ago,  and  it  seems  but 

yesterday.    The  day  was  warm  and  sultry — almost 

as  close  as  this  crowded  hall.     The  streets  of  the 

Ghetto  were  filled  with  the  market  throng,  and  the 
[86] 


I 


URIM    AND    THUMMIM 
air  hummed  with  the  music  of  Hfe.     The  whole 
picture  rises  clearly,  now — as  clearly  as  the  plat- 
form from  which  the  enthusiastic  speaker's  voice 
resounds  through  the  hall. 

A  white  hearse  stands  before  the  house.  The 
driver,  unaided,  bears  a  tiny  coffin  out  of  the 
gloomy  hallway  into  the  bright  sunshine.  The 
group  of  idlers  make  way  for  him,  and  look  on  with 
curiosity,  as  he  deposits  his  burden  within  the 
hearse. 

There  are  no  carriages.  There  are  no  flowers. 
Koppel  walks  slowly  out  of  the  house,  his  eyes 
fastened  upon  the  sidewalk,  his  lips  moving  as  if 
he  were  muttering  to  himself.  In  his  hand  he  car- 
ries two  broken  dolls.  Without  looking  to  right  or 
left,  he  climbs  beside  the  driver,  and  the  hearse 
rattles  down  the  street. 

I  mounted  the  stairs  to  his  home,  and  found 
everything  as  it  had  been  when  I  was  there  last — 
everything  save  Koppel  and  Rebecca,  and  Urim  and 
Thummim,  and  these  I  never  saw  again. 


[87] 


A    YIDDISH    IDYLL 


A    YIDDISH    IDYLL 

Die  Liebe  tat  eine  alte  Geschichte. 

In  German  they  call  it  "Die  Liebe."  The 
French,  as  every  school-girl  knows,  call  it 
"  L' Amour."  It  is  known  to  the  Spanish  and  the 
Italians,  and,  unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken,  it  was 
known  even  in  Ur  of  the  Chaldeans,  the  city  that 
was  lost  before  the  dawn  of  ancient  Greece. 

The  sky  has  sung  of  it,  the  bright  stars  have 
sung  of  it,  the  birds  and  the  flowers  and  the  green 
meadows  have  sung  of  it.  And  far  from  the  bright- 
ness and  the  sunshine  of  the  world  I  can  lead  you 
to  a  dark  room  where,  night  and  day,  the  air  is 
filled  with  the  whirring  and  buzzing  and  droning 
and  humming  of  sewing  machines,  and  if  you  listen 
intently  you  can  hear  the  song  they  sing :  "  Love ! 
Love !  Love !  " 

Die  Liebe  iat  eine  alte  Oeschichte. 

It  is  a  foolish  song,  and  somehow  or  other  it  has 

become  sadly  entangled  with  the  story  of  Erzik  and 
[91] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 
Sarah,  which  is  a  foolish  story  that  has  neither 
beginning  nor  end.    Nor  has  it  a  plot  or  a  meaning 
or  anything  at  all,  for  that  matter,  save  the  melody 
of  spring  and  the  perfume  of  flowers. 

You  see,  Sarah's  eyes  were  brown  and  Erzik's 
were  blue,  and  they  sat  side  by  side  in  the  sweat- 
shop where  the  sewing  machines  whirred  and 
buzzed  and  droned  and  hummed.  And  side  by 
side  they  had  sat  for  almost  a  year,  speaking 
hardly  a  dozen  words  a  day,  for  they  are  silent 
people,  those  Eastern  Jews,  and  each  time  that 
Sarah  looked  up  she  could  see  that  Erzik's  eyes 
were  blue,  and  she  saw  a  light  in  them  that  brought 
the  blood  to  her  cheeks  and  filled  her  with  a  strange 
joy  and  a  resolve  not  to  look  up  again. 

And  Erzik,  wondering  at  the  gladness  in  his 
heart,  would  smile,  whereat  the  sweater  would 
frown,  and  the  machines  would  whirr  and  buzz  and 
drone  and  hum  more  briskly. 

It  was  the  fault  of  the  black  thread — or  was  it 
the  white  thread  .f^  One  of  them,  at  least,  had  be- 
come entangled  in  the  bobbin  of  Sarah's  sewing 
machine,  and  in  disentangling  it  the  needle's  point 

pierced  her  skin,  drawing — a  tiny  drop  of  blood. 
[93] 


I 


A   YIDDISH    IDYLL 

Erzik  turned  pale,  and  tearing  a  strip  from  his 
handkerchief — a  piece  of  extravagance  which  ex- 
asperated the  sweater  beyond  all  bounds — hastened 
to  bind  it  around  the  wound.  Then  Sarah  laughed, 
and  Erzik  laughed,  too,  and  of  course  he  must  hold 
the  finger  close  to  his  eyes  to  adjust  the  bandage, 
and  then,  before  the  whole  room,  he  kissed  her 
hand.  Then  she  slapped  him  upon  one  cheek, 
whereupon  he  quickly  offered  the  other,  and  they 
laughed,  and  all  the  room  laughed,  save  Esther, 
whose  face  was  always  white  and  pinched. 

Is  it  not  a  foolish  story  ?  That  very  night  Erzik 
told  Sarah  that  he  loved  her,  and  she  cried  and  told 
him  she  loved  him,  and  then  he  cried,  and  they  both 
were  happy.  And  on  the  next  day  they  told  the 
sweater  that  they  were  soon  going  to  be  married, 
which  did  not  interest  him  at  all. 

It  was  gossip  for  half  a  day,  and  then  it  fell 
into  the  natural  order  of  things.  The  machines 
went  on  whirring  and  buzzing  and  droning  and 
humming,  and  Erzik  and  Sarah  frequently  looked 
up  from  their  work  and  gazed  smilingly  into  each 
other's  eyes.  Of  this  they  never  tired,  and  through 
the  spring  their  love  grew  stronger  and  deeper,  and 
[93] 


I 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

the  machines  in  the  room  never  ceased  to  sing  of  it ; 
even  the  sparrows  that  perched  upon  the  telegraph 
wires  close  by  the  windows  chirped  it  all  day 
long. 

Esther  grew  whiter  and  whiter,  and  her  face  be- 
came more  and  more  pinched.     And  one  day  she 
was  not  in  her  place.    But  neither  Erzik  nor  Sarah 
missed  her.     Another  day  and  another,  she  was 
absent,  and  on  the  following  day  they  buried  h^r. 
The  rabbi  brought  a  letter  to  Erzik. 
"  She  said  it  was  for  your  wedding." 
Carefully  folded  in  a  clean  sheet  of  note  paper 
lay  three  double  eagles;  it  was  Esther's  fortune. 
Die  Liebe  ist  eine  alte  Oeschichte. 

Erzik  and  Sarah  have  been  married  a  year,  and 
they  still  sit  side  by  side  in  the  sweatshop.  Spring 
has  come  again,  and  the  sewing  machines  whirr  and 
buzz  and  drone  and  hum,  and  through  it  all  you 
can  hear  that  foolish  old  song.  When  they  look 
up  from  their  work  and  their  eyes  meet,  they  smile. 
They  are  content  with  their  lot  in  life,  and  they 
love  each  other. 

The  story  runs  in  my  head  like  an  old  song,  and 
when  the  sky  is  blue,  and  the  birds  sing,  the  melody 
[94] 


I 


A   YIDDISH    IDYLL 

is  sweet  beyond  all  words.  Sometimes,  when  the 
sky  is  grey  and  the  air  is  heavy  with  a  coming 
storm,  it  seems  as  if  there  is  a  note  of  sadness  in 
the  song,  as  if  a  heart  were  crying.  But  the  sun- 
shine makes  it  right  again. 


[95] 


THE    STORY    OF    SARAI 


THE    STORY    OF    SARAI 

It  was  the  idle  hour  of  the  mart,  and  the  venders 
of  Hester  Street  were  busy  brushing  away  the  flies. 
Mother  Politsky  had  arranged  her  patriarchal- 
looking  fish  for  at  least  the  twentieth  time,  and  was 
wondering  whether  it  might  not  be  better  to  take 
them  home  than  to  wait  another  hour  in  the  hope 
of  a  chance  customer  being  attracted  to  her  stand. 
Suddenly  a  shadow  fell  across  the  fish.  She  looked 
up  and  beheld  a  figure  that  looked  for  all  the  world 
as  if  it  had  just  stepped  out  of  the  pages  of  the 
Pentateuch.  The  venerable  grey  beard,  the  strong 
aquiline  nose,  the  grave  blue  eyes,  and,  above  all, 
the  air  of  unutterable  wisdom,  completed  a  picture 
of  one  of  Israel's  prophets. 

"  God  be  with  the  Herr  Rabbi !  "  greeted  Mother 
Politsky. 

The  rabbi  poked  a  patriarchal  finger  into  the 
fish,  and  grunted  in  approbation  of  their  firm- 
ness. 

[99] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

"  Are  they  fresh?  "  he  asked,  giving  no  heed  to 
her  salutation. 

"  They  were  swimming  in  the  sea  this  very  day, 
Herr  Rabbi.  They  could  not  be  fresher  if  they 
were  alive.  And  the  price  is — oh,  you'll  laugh 
at  me  when  I  tell  you — only  twelve  cents  a 
pound." 

The  rabbi  laughed,  displaying  fine,  wide  teeth. 

"  Come,  come,  my  good  mother.  Tell  me  without 
joking  what  they  cost.  This  big  one,  and  that 
little  one  over  there." 

"  But,  Herr  Rabbi,  you  surely  cannot  mean  that 
that  is  too  much!  Well,  well — an  old  friend — 
eleven  cents,  we'll  say.  Will  you  take  the  big  one 
or  the  little  one.?" 

The  rabbi  was  still  smiling. 

"  My  dear  mother,  you  remind  me  of  Sarai." 

"  And  who  was  she?  "  asked  Mother  Politsky 
with  interest. 

"  Sarai  was  the  beautiful  daughter  of  the 
famous  Rabbiner  Emanuel  ben  Achad,  who  lived 
many  hundreds  of  years  ago.  She  was  famed  for 
her  beauty,  and  likewise  for  her  exceeding  shrewd- 
ness. Yes,  Sarai  was  very,  very  clever." 
[100] 


THE    STORY    OF  B  A  R  A  I 

"  And  I  remind  you  of  her?  Well,  well.  What 
a  beautiful  thing  it  is  to  be  a  rabbi  and  know  so 
much  about  the  past!  Come,  now,  I'll  say  ten 
cents,  and  you  can  have  your  choice.  Shall  I  wrap 
up  the  big " 

"  This  Sarai,"  the  rabbi  went  on,  "  had  many 
lovers,  but  of  them  all  she  liked  only  two.  One  of 
these  was  the  favourite  of  her  father;  the  other 
was  a  poor  but  handsome  youth  who  was  appren- 
ticed to  a  scribe.  For  a  long  time  Sarai  hesitated 
between  the  two.  Each  was  handsome,  each  was 
a  devoted  lover,  each  was  gifted  with  no  ordinary 
intelligence,  and  each  was  brave.  Yet  she  was  un- 
decided upon  which  to  bestow  her  heart  and  her 
hand." 

The  rabbi  had  picked  up  the  big  fish,  and  now 
paused  to  sniff  at  it. 

"And  what  did  she  do.?"  asked  Mother  Po- 
litsky. 

"  Ten  cents  ?  "  said  the  rabbi,  and  then,  with  a 
sigh,  he  laid  down  the  fish,  as  if  it  were  hopelessly 
beyond  his  reach. 

"  Nine,  then,  and  take  it,  but  what  did  Sarai 
do?  " 

[101] 


I 


.         ;<:  H  i:l*jo  ji£n  of  men 

The  rabbi  looked  long  and  intently  at  the  fish, 
and  then,  shaking  his  head  sadly,  resumed  his  nar- 
rative. 

"  Sarai  pondered  over  the  matter  for  many, 
many  weeks,  and  finally  decided  to  put  them  to  a 
test.  Now  the  name  of  her  father's  favourite  was 
Ezra,  while  the  poor  youth  was  called  Joseph. 
'  Father,'  she  said  one  day,  *  what  is  the  most  diffi- 
cult task  that  a  man  can  be  put  to  ? '  '  The  most 
difficult  thing  that  I  know  of,'  her  father  promptly 
replied,  '  is  to  grasp  the  real  meaning  of  the  Tal- 
mud.' 

"  Thereupon  Sarai  called  Ezra  and  Joseph  be- 
fore her,  and  said  to  them :  *  He  that  brings  to  me 
the  real  meaning  of  the  Talmud  shall  have  my 
hand.'    Was  that  not  clever  of  her?  " 

"  Yes !  Yes !  But  who  brought  the  true  an- 
swer.? "  asked  Mother  Politsky,  with  breathless  in- 
terest. The  rabbi  was  looking  longingly  at  the 
fish. 

"  How  much  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Eight  cents,  eight  cents.  I  don't  want  any 
profit,  but  who " 

"  Neither  of  the  young  men,"  the  rabbi  went  on, 
[102] 


I 


THE   STORY   OF    SARAI 

with  his  eyes  still  upon  the  fish,  "  knew  anything 
about  the  Talmud,  but  Joseph,  who  was  well  versed 
in  Hebrew,  began  at  once  to  study  it,  wherein  he 
had  the  advantage  over  Ezra,  who  knew  not  a  word 
of  Hebrew." 

"  Poor  Ezra !  "  murmured  Mother  Politsky. 

"  But  Ezra  was  a  shrewd  young  man,  and,  with- 
out wasting  any  time  upon  studying,  he  went 
straight  to  Sarai's  father  and  said  to  him :  '  Rabbi, 
you  are  the  greatest  scholar  of  the  world  to-day. 
Can  you  tell  me  the  real  meaning  of  the  Tal- 
mud? '  " 

"  Poor  Joseph !  "  murmured  Mother  Politsky. 

"  '  My  son,'  said  Rabbi  ben  Achad,  *  all  the  wis- 
dom of  the  human  race  since  the  days  of  Moses  has 
not  been  able  to  answer  that  question ! '  " 

The  rabbi  had  taken  up  the  big  fish  and  the  small 
one,  and  was  carefully  balancing  them. 

"  Eight,  you  say.  I  know  a  place  where  I  can 
get  them " 

"  Seven,  then.    And  Joseph.'*  " 

« for  six." 

*'  Seven  is  the  lowest.    But  Jo ** 

The  rabbi  turned  to  move  away. 
[103] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 

"All  right.  Six  cents.  But  finish  the  story. 
What  did  Joseph  do?" 

"  Joseph  studied  many  years  and  came  to  the 
same  conclusion.     I'll  take  the  small  one." 

"  But  which  of  them  married  Sarai.?  " 

"  The  story  does  not  say.  You're  sure  it  is 
fresh?  " 


[104] 


THE   AMERICANISATION    OF 
SHADRACH    COHEN 


THE    AMERICANISATION    OF 
SHADRACH    COHEN 

There  is  no  set  rule  for  the  turning  of  the 
worm;  most  worms,  however,  turn  unexpectedly. 
It  was  so  with  Shadrach  Cohen. 

He  had  two  sons.  One  was  named  Abel  and 
the  other  Gottlieb.  They  had  left  Russia  five 
years  before  their  father,  had  opened  a  store  on 
Hester  Street  with  the  money  he  had  given  them. 
For  reasons  that  only  business  men  would  under- 
stand they  conducted  the  store  in  their  father's 
name — and,  when  the  business  began  to  prosper 
and  they  saw  an  opportunity  of  investing  further 
capital  in  it  to  good  advantage,  they  wrote  to  their 
dear  father  to  come  to  this  country. 

"  We  have  a  nice  home  for  you  here,"  they 
wrote.     "  We  will  live  happily  together." 

Shadrach  came.  With  him  he  brought  Marta, 
the  serving-woman  who  had  nursed  his  wife  until 
[107] 


CHILDREN  OF  MEN 
she  died,  and  whom,  for  his  wife's  sake,  he  had 
taken  into  the  household.  When  the  ship  landed 
he  was  met  by  two  dapper-looking  young  men, 
each  of  whom  wore  a  flaring  necktie  with  a 
diamond  in  it.  It  took  him  some  time  to  realise 
that  these  were  his  two  sons.  Abel  and  Gottlieb 
promptly  threw  their  arms  around  his  neck  and 
welcomed  him  to  the  new  land.  Behind  his  head 
they  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay.  In  the  course 
of  five  years  they  had  forgotten  that  their  father 
wore  a  gaberdine — the  loose,  baglike  garment  of 
the  Russian  Ghetto — and  had  a  long,  straggling 
grey  beard  and  ringlets  that  came  down  over  his 
ears — ^that,  in  short,  he  was  a  perfect  type  of  the 
immigrant  whose  appearance  they  had  so  fre- 
quently ridiculed.  Abel  and  Gottlieb  were  proud  of 
the  fact  that  they  had  become  Americanised.  And 
they  frowned  at  Marta. 

"  Come,  father,"  they  said.  "  Let  us  go  to  a 
barber,  who  will  trim  your  beard  and  make  you  look 
more  like  an  American.  Then  we  will  take  you 
home  with  us." 

Shadrach  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  sur- 
prise. 

[108] 


SHADRACH   COHEN 

"  My  beard  ?  "  he  said ;  "  what  is  the  matter  with 
my  beard?  " 

"  In  this  city,"  they  explained  to  him,  "  no  one 
wears  a  beard  like  yours  except  the  newly  landed 
Russian  Jews." 

Shadrach's  lips  shut  tightly  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  said : 

"  Then  I  will  keep  my  beard  as  it  is.  I  am  a 
newly  landed  Russian  Jew."  His  sons  clinched 
their  fists  behind  their  backs  and  smiled  at  him 
amiably.  After  all,  he  held  the  purse-strings.  It 
was  best  to  humour  him. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  Marta?"  they  asked. 
"  We  have  a  servant.    We  will  not  need  two." 

"  Marta,"  said  the  old  man,  "  stays  with  us.  Let 
the  other  servant  go.  Come,  take  me  home.  I  am 
getting  hungry." 

They  took  him  home,  where  they  had  prepared  a 

feast  for  him.    When  he  bade  Marta  sit  beside  him 

at  the  table  Abel  and  Gottlieb  promptly  turned 

and  looked  out  of  the  window.      They  felt  that 

they  could  not  conceal  their  feelings.     The  feast 

was  a  dismal  affair.     Shadrach  was  racking  his 

brains  to  find  some  explanation  that  would  account 
[109] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

for  the  change  that  had  come  over  his  sons.  They 
had  never  been  demonstrative  in  their  affection  for 
him,  and  he  had  not  looked  for  an  effusive  greet- 
ing. But  he  realised  immediately  that  there  was 
a  wall  between  him  and  his  sons ;  some  change  had 
occurred;  he  was  distressed  and  puzzled.  When 
the  meal  was  over  Shadrach  donned  his  praying 
cap  and  began  to  recite  the  grace  after  meals. 
Abel  and  Gottlieb  looked  at  each  other  in  consterna- 
tion. Would  they  have  to  go  through  this  at 
every  meal.?  Better — far  better — ^to  risk  their 
father's  displeasure  and  acquaint  him  with  the 
truth  at  once.  When  it  came  to  the  response  Sha- 
drach looked  inquiringly  at  his  sons.  It  was  Abel 
who  explained  the  matter: 

"  We — er — ^have  grown  out  of — er — that  is — er 
— done  away  with — er^ — sort  of  fallen  into  the 
habit,  don't  you  know,  of  leaving  out  the  prayer  at 
meals.    It's  not  quite  American !  " 

Shadrach  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Then, 
bowing  his  head,  he  went  on  with  his  prayer. 

"  My  sons,"  he  said,  when  the  table  had  been 

cleared.     "  It  is  wrong  to  omit  the  prayer  after 

meals.    It  is  part  of  your  religion.    I  do  not  know 
[110] 


I 


SHADRACH  COHEN 
anything  about  this  America  or  its  customs.  But 
religion  is  the  worship  of  Jehovah,  who  has  chosen 
us  as  His  children  on  earth,  and  that  same  Jeho- 
vah rules  supreme  over  America  even  as  He  does 
over  the  country  that  you  came  from." 

Gottlieb  promptly  changed  the  subject  by  ex- 
plaining to  him  how  badly  they  needed  more  money 
in  their  business.  Shadrach  listened  patiently  for 
a  while,  then  said: 

"  I  am  tired  after  my  long  journey.  I  do  not 
understand  this  business  that  you  are  talking 
about.  But  you  may  have  whatever  money  you 
need.  After  all,  I  have  no  one  but  you  two." 
He  looked  at  them  fondly.  Then  his  glance 
fell  upon  the  serving- woman,  and  he  added, 
quickly : 

"  And  Marta." 

"  Thank  God,"  said  Gottlieb,  when  their  father 
had  retired,  "  he  does  not  intend  to  be  stingy." 

**  Oh,  he  is  all  right,"  answered  Abel.  "  After 
he  gets  used  to  things  he  will  become  Americanised 
like  us." 

To  their  chagrin,  however,  they  began  to  realise, 
after  a  few  months,  that  their  father  was  clinging 
[111] 


CHILDREN   OP   MEN 

to  the  habits  and  customs  of  his  old  life  with  a 
tenacity  that  filled  them  with  despair.  The  more 
they  urged  him  to  abandon  his  ways  the  more 
eager  he  seemed  to  become  to  cling  to  them.  He 
seemed  to  take  no  interest  in  their  business  affairs, 
but  he  responded,  almost  cheerfully,  to  all  their 
requests  for  money.  He  began  to  feel  that  this, 
after  all,  was  the  only  bond  between  him  and  his 
sons.  And  when  they  had  pocketed  the  money, 
they  would  shake  their  heads  and  sigh. 

"  Ah,  father,  if  you  would  only  not  insist  upon 
being  so  old-fashioned ! "  Abel  would  say. 

"  And  let  us  fix  you  up  a  bit,"  Gottlieb  would 
chime  in. 

"  And  become  more  progressive — ^like  the  other 
men  of  your  age  in  this  country." 

"  And  wear  your  beard  shorter  and  trimmed 
differently." 

"  And  learn  to  speak  English." 

Shadrach  never  lost  his  temper ;  never  upbraided 

them.     He  would  look  from  one  to  the  other  and 

keep  his  lips  tightly  pressed  together.     And  when 

they  had  gone  he  would  look  at  Marta  and  would 

say: 

[112] 


I 


SHADRACH    COHEN 

"Tell  me  what  you  think,  Marta.  Tell  me 
what  you  think." 

"  It  is  not  proper  for  me  to  interfere  between 
father  and  sons,"  Marta  would  say.  And  Sha- 
drach  could  never  induce  her  to  tell  him  what  she 
thought.  But  he  could  perceive  a  gleam  in  her 
eyes  and  observed  a  certain  nervous  vigour  in  the 
way  she  cleaned  the  pots  and  pans  for  hours  after 
these  talks,  that  fell  soothingly  upon  his  perturbed 
spirit. 

•  •  •  •  • 

As  we  remarked  before,  there  is  no  rule  for  the 
turning  of  the  worm.  Some  worms,  however,  turn 
with  a  crash.     It  was  so  with  Shadrach  Cohen. 

Gottlieb  informed  his  father  that  he  contem- 
plated getting  married. 

*'  She  is  very  beautiful,"  he  said.  "  The  affair 
is  all  in  the  hands  of  the  Shadchen." 

His  father's  face  lit  up  with  pleasure. 

"  Gottlieb,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand,  "  God 
bless  you!  It's  the  very  best  thing  you  could  do. 
Marta,  bring  me  my  hat  and  coat.  Come,  Gott- 
lieb.   Take  me  to  see  her.    I  cannot  wait  a  moment. 

I  want  to  see  my  future  daughter-in-law  at  once. 
[113] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

How  happy  your  mother  would  be  if  she  were  alive 
to-day!" 

Gottlieb  turned  red  and  hung  back. 

"  I  think,  father,"  he  said,  "  you  had  better  not 
go  just  yet.  Let  us  wait  a  few  days  until  the 
Shadchen  has  made  all  the  arrangements.  She  is 
an  American  girl.  She — she  won't — er — under- 
stand your  ways — don't  you  know.?  And  it  may 
spoil  everything." 

Crash !  Marta  had  dropped  an  iron  pot  that  she 
was  cleaning.  Shadrach  was  red  in  the  face  with 
suppressed  rage. 

"  So ! "  he  said.  "  It  has  come  to  this.  You 
are  ashamed  of  your  father !  "  Then  he  turned  to 
the  old  servant: 

"  Marta,"  he  said,  "  to-morrow  we  become  Amer- 
icanised— you  and  I." 

There  was  an  intonation  in  his  voice  that  alarmed 
his  son. 

"  You  are  not  SLngry "  he  began,  but  with  a 

fierce  gesture  his  father  cut  him  short. 

"  Not  another  word.  To  bed !  Go  to  bed  at 
once." 

Gottlieb  was  dumbfounded.     With  open  mouth 

[114] 


W      he 


SHADRACH   COHEN 

he  stared  at  his  father.  He  had  not  heard  that 
tone  since  he  was  a  little  boy. 

"  But,  father "  he  began. 

"  Not  a  word.  Do  you  hear  me?  Not  a  word 
will  I  listen  to.  In  five  minutes  if  you  are  not  in 
bed  you  go  out  of  this  house.  Remember,  this  is 
my  house." 

Then  he  turned  to  Abel.  Abel  was  calmly  smok- 
ing a  cigar. 

"  Throw  that  cigar  away,"  his  father  com- 
manded, sternly. 

Abel  gasped  and  looked  at  his  father  in  dismay. 

"  Marta,  take  that  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  and 
throw  it  into  the  fire.  If  he  objects  he  goes  out 
of  the  house." 

With  a  smile  of  intense  delight  Marta  plucked 
the  cigar  from  Abel's  unresisting  lips,  and  inci- 
dentally trod  heavily  upon  his  toes.  Shadrach 
gazed  long  and  earnestly  at  his  sons. 

"  To-morrow,  my  sons,"  he  said,  slowly,  **  you 
will  begin  to  lead  a  new  life." 

In  the  morning  Abel  and  Gottlieb,  full  of  dread 
forebodings,  left  the  house  as  hastily  as  they  could. 
They  wanted  to  get  to  the  store  to  talk  matters 

[115] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

over.  They  had  hardly  entered  the  place,  however, 
when  the  figure  of  their  father  loomed  up  in  the 
doorway.  He  had  never  been  in  the  place  before. 
He  looked  around  him  with  great  satisfaction  at 
the  many  evidences  of  prosperity  which  the  place 
presented^  When  he  beheld  the  name  "  Shadrach 
Cohen,  Proprietor "  over  the  door  he  chuckled. 
Ere  his  sons  had  recovered  from  the  shock  of  his 
appearance  a  pale-faced  clerk,  smoking  a  cigar- 
ette, approached  Shadrach,  and  in  a  sharp  tone 
asked: 

"Well,  sir,  what  do  you  want?"  Shadrach 
looked  at  him  with  considerable  curiosity.  Was  he 
Americanised,  too.?  The  young  man  frowned  im- 
patiently. 

"  Come,  come !  I  can't  stand  here  all  day.  Do 
you  want  anything.'* " 

Shadrach  smiled  and  turned  to  his  sons. 

"  Send  him  away  at  once.  I  don't  want  that 
kind  of  young  man  in  my  place."  Then  turn- 
ing to  the  young  man,  upon  whom  the  light  of 
revelation  had  quickly  dawned,  he  said,  sternly: 

"  Young  man,  whenever  you  address  a  person 
who  is  older  than  you,  do  it  respectfully.  Honour 
[116] 


SHADRACH    COHEN 

your  father  and  your  mother.  Now  go  away  as 
fast  as  you  can.    I  don't  like  you." 

"  But,  father,"  interposed  Gottlieb,  "  we  must 
have  someone  to  do  his  work." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Shadrach,  "  is  that  so.?  Then, 
for  the  present,  you  will  do  it.  And  that  young 
man  over  there — what  does  he  do.?  " 

"  He  is  also  a  salesman." 

"  Let  him  go.    Abel  will  take  his  place." 

"  But,  father,  who  is  to  manage  the  store?  Who 
will  see  that  the  work  is  properly  done.?  " 

"  I  will,"  said  the  father.  "  Now,  let  us  have  no 
more  talking.     Get  to  work." 

Crestfallen,  miserable,  and  crushed  in  spirit,  Abel 
and  Gottlieb  began  their  humble  work  while  their 
father  entered  upon  the  task  of  familiarising  him- 
self with  the  details  of  the  business.  And  even 
before  the  day's  work  was  done  he  came  to  his  sons 
with  a  frown  of  intense  disgust. 

"  Bah !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  is  just  as  I  ex- 
pected. You  have  both  been  making  as  complete 
a  mess  of  this  business  as  you  could  without  ruin- 
ing it.  What  you  both  lack  is  sense.  If  becom- 
ing Americanised  means  becoming  stupid,  I  must 
[117] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

congratulate  you  upon  the  thoroughness  of  your 
work.  To-morrow  I  shall  hire  a  manager  to  run 
this  store.  He  will  arrange  your  hours  of  work. 
He  will  also  pay  you  what  you  are  worth.  Not  a 
cent  more.  How  late  have  you  been  keeping  this 
store  open  ?  " 

"  Until  six  o'clock,"  said  Abel. 

"  H'm !  Well,  beginning  to-day,  you  both  will 
stay  here  until  eight  o'clock.  Then  one  of  you 
can  go.  The  other  will  stay  until  ten.  You  can 
take  turns.  I  will  have  Marta  send  you  some  sup- 
per." 

•  •  •  •  • 

To  the  amazement  of  Abel  and  Gottlieb  the  busi- 
ness of  Shadrach  Cohen  began  to  grow.  Slowly 
it  dawned  upon  them  that  in  the  mercantile  realm 
they  were  as  children  compared  with  their  father. 
His  was  the  true  money-maker  spirit;  there  was 
something  wonderful  in  the  swiftness  with  which 
he  grasped  the  most  intricate  phases  of  trade ;  and 
where  experience  failed  him  some  instinct  seemed 
to  guide  him  aright.  And  gradually,  as  the  busi- 
ness of  Shadrach  Cohen  increased,  and  even  the 

sons  saw  vistas  of  prosperity  beyond  their  wildest 
[118] 


SHADRACH    COHEN 

dreams,  they  began  to  look  upon  their  father  with 
increasing  respect.  What  they  had  refused  to  the 
integrity  of  his  character,  to  the  nobility  of  his 
heart,  they  promptly  yielded  to  the  shrewdness  of 
his  brain.  The  sons  of  Shadrach  Cohen  became 
proud  of  their  father.  He,  too,  was  slowly  under- 
going a  change.  A  new  life  was  unfolding  itself 
before  his  eyes,  he  became  broader-minded,  more 
tolerant,  and,  above  all,  more  flexible  in  his  tenets. 
Contact  with  the  outer  world  had  quickly  impressed 
him  with  the  vast  differences  between  his  present 
surroundings  and  his  old  life  in  Russia.  The 
charm  of  American  life,  of  liberty,  of  democracy, 
appealed  to  him  strongly.  As  the  field  of  his  busi- 
ness operations  widened  he  came  more  and  more  ih 
contact  with  American  business  men,  from  whom  h6 
learned  many  things — principally  the  faculty  of 
adaptibility.  And  as  his  sons  began  to  perceive  ^ 
that  all  these  business  men  whom,  in  former  days, 
they  had  looked  upon  with  feelings  akin  to  rever- 
ence, seemed  to  show  to  their  father  an  amount  of 
deference  and  respect  which  they  had  never  evinced 
toward  the  sons,  their  admiration  for  their  father 

increased. 

[119] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 

And  yet  it  was  the  same  Shadrach  Cohen. 

From  that  explosive  moment  when  he  had  re- 
belled against  his  sons  he  demanded  from  them 
implicit  obedience  and  profound  respect.  Upon 
that  point  he  was  stern  and  unyielding.  More- 
over, he  insisted  upon  a  strict  observance  of  every 
tenet  of  their  religion.  This,  at  first,  was  the  bit- 
terest pill  of  all.  But  they  soon  became  accustomed 
to  it.  When  life  is  light  and  free  from  care,  re- 
ligion is  quick  to  fly ;  but  when  the  sky  grows  dark 
and  life  becomes  earnest,  and  we  fed  its  burden 
growing  heavy  upon  our  shoulders,  then  we  wel- 
come the  consolation  that  religion  brings,  and  we 
cling  to  it. /And  Shadrach  Cohen  had  taught  his 
sons  that  life  was  earnest.  They  were  earning 
their  bread  by  the  sweat  of  their  brow.  No  pris- 
oner, with  chain  and  ball,  was  subjected  to  closer 
supervision  by  his  keeper  than  were  Gottlieb  and 
Abel. 

"  You  have  been  living  upon  my  charity,"  their 
father  said  to  them :  "  I  will  teach  you  how  to  earn 
your  own  living." 

And  he  taught  them.  And  with  the  lesson  they 
learned  many  things;  learned  the  value  of  dis- 
[120] 


I 


SHADRACH    COHEN 
cipline,    learned    the    beauty    of    filial    reverence, 
learned  the  severe  joy  of  the  earnest  life. 

One  day  Gottlieb  said  to  his  father: 

"May  I  bring  Miriam  to  supper  to-night?  I 
am  anxious  that  you  should  see  her." 

Shadrach  turned  his  face  away  so  that  Gottlieb 
might  not  see  the  joy  that  beamed  in  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,  my  son,"  he  answered.  "  I,  too,  am 
anxious  to  see  if  she  is  worthy  of  you." 

Miriam  came,  and  in  a  stiff,  embarrassed  man- 
ner Gottlieb  presented  her  to  his  father.  The  girl 
looked  in  surprise  at  the  venerable  figure  that  stood 
before  her — a  picture  of  a  patriarch  from  the  Pen- 
tateuch, with  a  long,  straggling  beard,  and  ringlets 
of  hair  falling  over  the  ears,  and  clad  in  the  long 
gaberdine  of  the  Russian  Ghettos.  And  she  saw 
a  pair  of  grey  eyes  bent  keenly  upon  her — eyes  of 
shrewdness,  but  soft  and  tender  as  a  woman's — 
the  eyes  of  a  strong  man  with  a  kind  heart.  Im- 
pulsively she  ran  toward  him  and  seized  his  hands. 
And,  with  a  smile  upon  her  lips,  she  said : 

"  Will  you  not  give  me  your  blessing.'^  " 

When  the  evening  meal  had  ended,  Shadrach 

[121] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

donned  his  praying  cap,  and  with  bowed  head  in- 
toned  the  grace  after  meals: 

"  We  will  bless  Him  from  whose  wealth  we  have 
eaten ! "  And  in  fervent  tones  rose  from  Gott- 
lieb's lips  the  response: 

"Blessed  be  He!" 


[122] 


HANNUKAH    LIGHTS 


HANNUKAH    LIGHTS 

Somewhere  in  transit  he  had  lost  all  his  letters, 
papers,  credentials,  cards — all  belongings,  in  fact, 
that  might  have  established  his  identit3\  He  said 
he  was  David  Fames,  and  that  he  had  come  from 
Pesth.  And,  as  he  was  tall  and  straight,  with  fine 
black  eyes  and  curling  black  hair,  a  somewhat  dash- 
ing presence,  and  the  most  charming  manners,  he 
soon  made  friends,  particularly  among  the  women, 
for,  in  Houston  Street,  as  elsewhere,  the  fair  sex 
rarely  looks  behind  a  pleasing  personality^  for 
credentials  of  character. 

Eulie,    the    waitress    and    maid-of-all-work    in 
Weiss's  coffee  house,  felt  the  blood  surge  to  her 

I  face  when  first  she  beheld  him,  and  when,  for  the 
first  time,  he  gave  her  Trinkgeld  and  a  smile,  all 
the  blood  rushed  back  to  her  heart.  After  that 
Eulie  was  his  slave.  All  day  long  she  waited  for 
him  to  come.  When  he  had  gone  the  place  seemed 
dark,  and  the  music  of  the  gipsy  band  grated  upon 
[125] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

her.  While  he  was  there — usually  sitting  alone 
and  sipping  coffee  and  staring  into  vacancy  like 
a  man  whose  mind  is  busy  with  many  schemes — ^her 
heart  beat  faster,  and  life  seemed  glad.  Eulie  was 
plain — painfully  plain — but  there  was  a  charm 
about  her  that  had  won  the  admiration  of  many 
of  the  patrons  of  the  place,  some  of  whom  had 
even  offered  her  marriage.  But  she  had  only 
laughed,  and  had  declared  that  she  would  never 
marry. 

Sometimes  these  incidents  came  to  the  ear  of 
Esther,  the  daughter  of  the  proprietor,  and  made 
her  heart  burn ;  for  Esther  was  fair  to  look  upon, 
and  yet  had  reached  and  passed  her  twentieth  year 
without  a  single  offer  of  marriage.  With  all  her 
beauty  the  girl  was  absolutely  devoid  of  charm; 
there  was  something  even  in  the  tone  of  her  voice 
that  repelled  men  ;  probably  a  reflection  of  her  arro- 
gance and  selfishness.  Then,  one  day,  Eulie  be- 
held her  talking  to  David;  saw  that  her  face  was 
animated,  and  that  David's  eyes  were  fastened  in- 
tently upon  her.  In  Esther's  eyes  she  read  that 
story  which,  between  woman  and  woman,  is  an  open 
book.  When  her  work  was  finished  that  night  Eulie 

[126] 


HANNUKAH    LIGHTS 

hastened  to  her  room,  and,  throwing  herself  upon 
the  bed,  burst  Into  a  flood  of  weeping. 

The  affair  progressed  rapidly.  There  were 
times  when  Eulie,  after  serving  him  with  coffee, 
would  stand  silently  behind  David,  gazing  upon 
him  intently,  yearning  to  throw  her  arms  around 
that  curly  head  and  cry,  "  I  love  you !  I  am  your 
slave ! "  But  these  became  rarer  and  rarer,  for 
Esther  demanded  more  and  more  of  his  presence, 
and  it  was  seldom  that  he  sat  alone  in  the  coffee 
house.  Eulie  had  never  seen  him  manifest  any  of 
those  lover-like  demonstrations  toward  Esther  that 
might  have  been  expected  under  the  circumstances, 
but  she  attributed  this  to  his  pride.  Probably, 
she  thought,  when  they  were  alone,  beyond  the 
reach  of  prying  eyes,  he  kissed  her  and  caressed 
her  to  her  heart's  content.  The  thought  of  it  wore 
on  her  spirit.  And  when,  one  day,  Esther  told  her 
that  they  were  to  be  married  at  the  end  of  a  month 
Eulie  turned  pale  and  trembled,  and  then  hurried 
to  her  room. 

A  few  days  after  this  announcement  had  been 
publicly  made,  and  congratulations  had  begun  to 

pour  in  from  the  many  patrons  of  the  establish- 
[127] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

ment,  who  had  known  Esther  from  childhood,  Eulie 
observed  a  change  in  David's  demeanour.  He 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  worried.  He 
would  come  to  the  coffee  house  late  at  night,  after 
Esther  had  retired,  and  sit  alone  over  his  coffee, 
brooding.  Eulie's  duties  permitted  her  to  leave 
at  nine  o'clock,  but  if  David  had  not  come  at  that 
hour,  she  continued  to  work,  even  until  midnight, 
the  closing  time,  in  the  hope  that  she  would  see  him 
enter.  He  rarely  spoke  to  her,  rarely  noticed  her, 
in  fact,  but  Eulie,  in  her  heart,  had  established  an 
intimacy  between  them.  An  intimacy.?  Rather  a 
world  of  love  and  devotion,  in  which,  alas !  she  lived 
alone  witli  a  shadow. 

She  was  quick  to  see  the  change  that  had  come 
over  him,  and  she  longed  to  speak  to  him — to  im- 
plore him  to  confide  in  her.  Was  it  money.?  She 
had  led  a  frugal  life,  and  had  saved  the  greater 
part  of  her  earnings  for  years.  She  would  not 
trust  her  pittance  to  the  banks.  It  was  all  in  a 
trunk  in  her  room,  and  he  was  welcome  to  it.  Was 
it  service  that  he  needed.?  She  was  a  slave  ready 
to  do  his  bidding.     The  tears  came  into  her  eyes 

to  see  that  face  upon  which  light  and  laughter  sat 
[128] 


HANNUKAH   LIGHTS 
so  gracefully  now  cast  down  with  gloom. 


But 


I 


David  worried  on  in  silence,  and  left  the  place  with- 
out a  word. 

Then,  for  several  days,  he  did  not  come  at  all. 
Esther  told  her  that  he  had  been  called  out  of  town 
on  business. 

"  Did — did  he  not  look  worried  when  last  you 
saw  him?"  Eulie  asked,  timidly.  Esther's  eyes 
opened  in  surprise. 

"  Why,  no.  I  did  not  notice  that  he  looked  any 
different." 

Eulie  sighed.  That  night  there  came  to  one  of 
her  tables  a  brisk,  sharp-eyed  little  man,  whose 
manner  and  accent  betokened  a  new  arrival  from 
Hungary.  He  bowed  politely  to  Eulie,  praised  her 
skill  in  waiting  upon  him,  and  complimented  her 
upon  her  hair,  which  she  wore  flat  upon  her  head 
after  the  fashion  of  the  peasant  girls  of  Hungary. 
He  gave  her  liberal  Trmkgeld,  and  bowed  courte- 
ously when  he  departed.  The  next  evening  he  re- 
turned and  greeted  her  as  a  newly  made  acquaint- 
ance. They  chatted  pleasantly  a  while — ^he  had 
much  news  from  the  mother  country  that  interested 

her — and  then,  quite  by-the-way — Did  she  happen 
[129] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

to  know  a  young  man,  tall  and  straight — quite 
good-looking,  black  eyes  and  curling  hair,  a  ver}' 
pleasant  chap,  extremely  popular  with  the  girls? 
A  friend  had  told  him  that  he  would  find  this  young 
man  somewhere  in  the  Hungarian  colony — did  she 
know  anyone  who  answered  that  description?  His 
eyes  were  turned  from  her — he  was  watching  the 
gipsies  playing — it  was  all  quite  casual. 

It  is  said  that  love  creates  a  sixth  sense.  In  a 
flash  Eulie's  whole  nature  shrank  from  this  man, 
and  stood  at  arms  ready  for  battle.  This  was  no 
friend  in  search  of  a  boon  companion.  This  was 
an  enemy — a  mortal  enemy  of  David.  She  felt 
it,  knew  it  as  positively  as  if  she  had  seen  him  fly  at 
David's  throat.  Fortunately  the  man  had  not  ob- 
served the  pallor  that  overspread  her  coimtenance. 

"  No.  I  do  not  remember  having  seen  such  a 
man.  He  never  comes  here,  or  I  would  have  re- 
membered him." 

That  night  was  the  beginning  of  the  feast  of 
Hanukkah — ^the  only  feast  at  which  the  peniten- 
tial psalms  are  omitted,  lest  they  might  mar  the 
joy  fulness  of  the  celebration.     Esther  was  away, 

and  it  was  Eulie's  duty  to  light  the  candles  in  the 
[130] 


HANNUKAH    LIGHTS 

living  room  overhead.  The  sun  was  fast  sinking, 
but  the  light  of  day  still  lingered  in  the  sk3\  Eulie 
felt  that  it  might  be  sacrilegious  to  hasten  so  holy 
a  function,  but  a  sudden  nervous  dread  had  come 
over  her,  and  there  was  fear  in  her  heart. 

"  I  will  light  the  candles  now,"  she  said.  "  Then 
I  will  wait  outside  in  the  street,  and  if  he  comes  I 
will  warn  him." 

Swiftly,  lightly,  she  sped  up  the  stairs  to  the 
living  room.  The  door  was  open,  and  the  light 
from  the  hall  lamp  shone  dimly  into  the  furthest 
corner,  where,  with  his  back  turned  to  the  door, 
stood,  or  rather  knelt,  David  Fames  before  a  desk 
in  which  the  coffee  house  proprietor  kept  his  money. 
Eulie  recoiled,  shocked,  horrified.  Then,  swift  as 
a  lightning  stroke  came  full  revelation.  He  was  a 
thief!  She  had  always  suspected  something  like 
that.  And  she  loved  him — adored  him  more  than 
ever  at  this  moment !  Eulie  was  an  honest  girl,  an 
honest  peasant  girl,  descended  from  a  long  line  of 
peasants,  all  as  honest  as  the  day.  But  the  world 
was  against  the  man  she  loved.  Honesty?  To  the 
winds  with  honesty!  With  a  rush  she  was  at  his 
side. 

[131] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

"  Listen !  "  she  whispered,  excitedly.  "  There  is 
the  key.  Over  there  on  the  wall.  The  money  is  in 
the  top  drawer.  Take  it  and  fly.  There  is  a  man 
below  from  Hungary  looking  for  you.  I  told  him 
you  did  not  come  here.  You  can  get  away  before 
he  finds  you.  I  will  never  tell.  I  swear  I  will  never 
tell.    Quick!    You  must  fly!" 

The  young  man  had  turned  quickly  when  she 
entered,  but  after  that  he  had  not  moved.  He  was 
still  upon  one  knee.  Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  from 
the  ceiling  he  could  not  have  been  more  astonished. 
He  looked  at  Eulie  in  bewilderment. 

"  Wait !  "  she  cried.  "  I  will  be  back  in  a  second. 
Open  the  desk  and  take  all  the  money,  and  then  I 
will  be  back." 

It  seemed  to  him  but  an  instant — Eulie  had  gone 
and  had  returned.  He  was  still  kneeling — almost 
petrified  with  amazement.  Eulie  held  out  an  old, 
stained,  leather  pocketbook. 

"  It  is  all  mine,"  she  whispered.  "  Take  it. 
Run !    You  must  not  wait !  " 

Slowly  he  rose  to  his  feet.     Once  or  twice  he 

passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  if  he  feared  he  was 

dreaming. 

[  132  ] 


HANNUKAH    LIGHTS 

"EuUe?" 

There  was  a  world  of  incredulity,  of  bewilder- 
ment, of  questioning  in  his  voice. 

"  Oh,  do  not  stay !  "  cried  the  poor  girl.  "  They 
will  be  looking  for  you.  Go,  before  it  is  too  late. 
Go  far  away.    They  will  never  find  you." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  What 
does  it  mean  ?  " 

A  sudden  weakness  overcame  Eulie,  and  she  burst 
into  tears.     He  advanced  toward  her. 

"  Why  are  you  doing  this  ?  "  he  asked.  Eulie 
could  not  speak.  Her  frame  was  convulsed  with  sob- 
bing; the  tears  were  streaming  down  her  cheeks; 
David,  open-mouthed,  stood  gazing  at  her.  The 
pocketbook  had  fallen  from  her  hand,  and  a  small 
heap  of  bank  notes  had  slipped  from  it.  David 
looked  at  them ;  then  at  her.  Slowly  he  advanced 
to  where  she  stood.  As  gently  as  he  could  he  drew 
her  hands  from  her  face  and  turned  her  head 
toward  the  light  in  the  hall. 

"Euhe?" 

The  blood  coursed  to  her  cheeks.    Her  gaze  fell. 

She  tore  herself  from  his  clasp. 

"  For  God's  sake,  go !  "  she  cried.     He  restored 
[133] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

the  money  to  the  pocketbook  and  placed  it  in  her 
hands.     Then  he  started  toward  the  door. 

"You  will  not  take  it.?"  she  asked,  piteously. 
"  It  is  all  mine.  I  give  it  to  you  freely.  Borrow 
it  if  you  like.    Some  day  you  can  send  it  back." 

He  shook  his  head,  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment, 
then  returned  to  her. 

"  Eulie,"  he  whispered.  "  My  mother  is  dead. 
But  in  heaven  she  is  blessing  you ! " 

Then  he  kissed  her  upon  the  forehead  and  walked 
determinedly  out  of  the  room.  Eulie  stood  sway- 
ing to  and  fro,  for  a  moment,  then  tottered  and  fell 
to  the  floor.  David  stood  on  the  stairs  a  full  min- 
ute, breathing  heavily,  like  a  man  who  has  been 
running.  Then  his  teeth  clicked  tightly  together, 
he  drew  a  long  breath,  walked  briskly  down  the 
steps,  and  strode  into  the  brilliantly  lighted  coffee 
house. 

He  knew  the  man  at  once.  He  had  never  seen 
him  before,  but  unerring  instinct  pointed  out  his 
pursuer.     He  walked  straight  toward  him. 

"  When  do  we  start  for  Pesth  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  man  eyed  him  narrowly,  gazed  at  him 
thoughtfully  for  a  moment,  then  his  face  lit  up. 

[134] 


H  ANN  UK  AH    LIGHTS 

"  By  the  next  steamer,  if  you  like,"  was  all  he 
said. 

David  nodded. 

"  Good,"  he  said.  Then,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation : 

"  Will  you  come  upstairs  with  me  for  a  mo- 
ment?" 

Without  a  word  the  man  accompanied  him. 
They  found  Eulie,  pale  as  a  ghost,  standing  at  the 
mantel,  lighting  the  Hannukah  candles.  When  she 
beheld  David  with  his  captor,  she  screamed,  and 
would  have  fallen  had  not  David  sprung  forward 
and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Listen,"  he  said,  speaking  rapidly.  "  I  am 
going  back.  My  name  is  not  David  Parnes.  I  will 
write  in  a  few  days  and  tell  you  everything.  They 
will  send  me  to  prison.  In  two  or  three  years  I  shall 
be  free.    Then  I  am  coming  back  for  you." 

He  held  her  in  his  arms  for  one  brief  moment, 
kissed  her  again  on  the  forehead,  and  was  gone. 
Then  the  tears  came  afresh  to  Eulie's  eyes.  But 
through  her  veins  coursed  a  tumult  of  joy. 


[1351 


A  SWALLOW-TAILER  FOR 
TWO 


A    SWALLOW-TAILER    FOR 
TWO 

"Isidore?  Bah!  Never  again  do  I  want  dot 
name  to  hear! 

"  Isidore  ?  A  loafer  he  iss !  Sure !  Ve  vas  friends 
vunce,  unt  don't  I  know  vot  a  loafer  he  iss  ?  Ven  a 
man  iss  a  loafer  nobody  knows  it  better  as  his  best 
friend. 

"  Don't  you  remember  by  der  night  uf  der  two 
Purim  balls?  Vot?  No?  Yes!  Dere  vas  two 
Purim  balls  by  der  same  night;  der  one  vas  across 
der  street  from  der  odder.  Yes.  Der  one,  dot  vas 
der  Montefiore  Society.  I  vas  der  president.  Der 
odder,  dot  vas  der  Baron  Hirsch  Literary  Atzocia- 
tion.     Isidore  vas  der  vice-president. 

"  Isidore  unt  I  lived  together.  Oh,  ve  vas  such 
friends!  David  unt  Jonathan  dey  vas  not  better 
friends  as  me  unt  Isidore.  Everyt'ing  vot  Isidore 
had  could  belong  also  to  me.     Unt  if  I  had  some- 

[139] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 
t'ing  I  always  told  Isidore  dot  I  had  it.    I  did  not 
know  vot  a  loafer  he  vas. 

"  So  it  comes  der  day  of  der  Montefiore  ball,  unt 
I  ask  Izzy  if  he  iss  going.  '  No,  Moritz,'  he  says, 
'  I  am  going  by  der  Baron  Hirsch  ball.'  *  But  any- 
way,' I  says,  '  let  us  go  by  der  tailor  unt  hire  for 
rent  our  evening-dress  swallow-tails.'  '  Sure,'  he 
says.  Unt  ve  vent  by  der  tailor's.  But  dot  vas 
such  a  busy  times  dot  every  tailor  ve  vent  to  said 
he  vas  so  sorry  but  he  had  already  hired  out  for 
rent  all  der  swallow-tails  vot  he  had,  unt  he  didn't 
haf  no  more  left.  Ve  vent  from  every  tailor  vot 
ve  know  to  every  odder  tailor.  Der  last  vun  he  vas 
a  smart  feller.  He  says :  '  Gents,  I  got  vun  suit 
left,  but  it  iss  der  only  vun.'  Den  Izzy  unt  me 
looked  into  our  faces.     Vot  could  ve  do.? 

"  '  Id  iss  no  use,'  I  says,  unt  Izzy  says  it  vas  no 
use,  unt  ve  vas  just  going  away,  ven  der  smart 
tailor  says :  '  Vy  don't  you  take  der  suit  unt  each 
take  a  turn  to  wear  it?  '  So  Izzy  says  to  me, '  Mo- 
ritz, dot's  a  idea.  You  can  wear  der  suit  by  der 
Montefiore  ball,  unt  I  can  wear  it  by  der  Baron 
Hirsch  ball.  Der  dancing  vill  be  all  night.  You 
can  have  it  from  nine  o'clock  until  it  is  elefen 
[140] 


A  SWALLOW-TAILER  FOR  TWO 
o'clock.  Dot  iss  two  hours.  Den  you  can  excuse 
yourself.  Den  I  put  on  der  suit  und  wear  it  by  der 
Baron  Hirsch  ball  from  elefen  o'clock  until  id  iss 
vun  o'clock  in  der  morning.  Den  I  excuse  myself. 
Den,  Moritz,  you  can  haf  it  again  by  der  Monte- 
fiore  ball  until  id  iss  free  o'clock.  Dot  iss  two  more 
hours,  unt  if  I  want  it  after  free  o'clock  I  can  haf 
it  for  two  hours  more.' 

"  Say !  Dot  Izzy  iss  a  great  schemer.  He  has 
a  brain  like  a  Napoleon.  He  iss  a  loafer,  but  he  iss 
a  smart  ^'un.  So,  anyvay,  ve  took  der  suit.  Der 
tailor  charged  us  two  dollars — oh,  he  vas  a  skin ! — 
unt  Izzy  unt  I  said  ve  would  each  pay  half,  unt 
ve  each  gave  der  tailor  a  gold  watch  to  keep  for 
der  security  uv  der  suit.  Unt  den — ^I  remember  it 
like  if  it  vas  yesterday — I  looked  into  Isidore's 
eye  unt  I  said :  '  Isidore,  iss  it  your  honest  plan  to 
be  fair  unt  square?  '  Because,  I  vill  tell  you,  der 
vas  somef  ing  in  my  heart  dot  vas  saying,  he  vill 
play  some  crooked  business !  But  Isidore  held  out 
his  hand  unt  said,  '  Moritz,  you  know  me!  '  Unt  I 
trusted  him ! 

"  So  ve  went  to  der  room  ve  lived  in  unt  I  put 
der  suit  on.    It  fitted  me  fine.    I  look  pretty  good  in 

[141] 


CHILDREN    OF   MEN 

a  evening  swallow-tail  unt  Isidore  says  I  looked  like 
a  regular  aritztocrat. 

"  *  Be  careful,  Moritz,'  he  says,  *  unt  keep  der 
shirt  clean.'  I  forgot  to  tell  you  dot  ve  hired  a 
shirt,  too,  because  it  vas  cheaper  as  two  shirts. 
'  Come,  Moritz,'  he  says,  '  let  us  go ! '  '  Us ! '  I 
says,  astonished.  '  Are  you  coming  by  der  Monte- 
fiore  ball,  too?'  'Sure,'  he  says.  'You  are  der 
president,  unt  you  can  get  me  in  without  a  ticket. 
I  don't  have  to  wear  a  swallow-tail  evening  dresser 
because  I  ain'd  a  member.' 

"  It  took  me  only  a  second  to  t'ink  der  matter 
over.  I  am  such  a  qvick  t'inker.  If  he  comes  to 
my  ball,  I  says  to  myself,  I  vill  come  by  his !  '  Sure, 
Izzy,'  I  says.  '  As  my  friend  you  are  velcome.'  So 
ve  vent  to  der  Montefiore  ball. 

"  Der  moment  ve  got  into  der  ballroom  I  seen 

vot  a  nasty  disposition  Isidore  got.    '  Izzy,'  I  says, 

'  go  get  acqvainted  mit  a  nice  lady,  unt  dance  unt 

enjoy  yourself  unt  I  vill  see  you  again  at  elefen 

o'clock.'     '  No,  Moritz,'  he  says.     '  I  vill  stick  by 

you.'    I  am  a  proud  man,  so  I  said,  very  dignified, 

'  All  right,  if  you  vill  have  it  so.' 

"  Unt  Isidore  stuck.    Efry  time  I  looked  around 
[143] 


I 


A   SWALLOW-TAILER   FOR   TWO 

me  I  seen  his  eyes  keepin'  a  look-out  on  der  swallow- 
tail evening  dress.  Such  big  eyes  Isidore  had  dot 
night !  '  Don't  vatch  me  like  dot,  Izzy,'  I  said. 
'  Dey  vill  t'ink  you  are  a  detectif ,  unt  dot  I  stole 
somet'ing.'  Ef rytime  I  drops  a  leetle  tiny  bit  from 
a  cigar  ashes  on  my  swallow-tail  shirt  Izzy  comes 
running  up  mit  a  handkerchief  unt  cleans  it  off. 
Ef  ry  time  I  sits  down  on  a  chair  Izzy  comes  up  unt 
vispers  in  my  ear,  '  Moritz,  please  don't  get 
wrinkles  in  der  swallow-tail.  Remember,  I  got  to 
wear  it  next.'  Efry  time  I  took  a  drink  Moritz 
comes  unt  holds  der  handkerchief  under  der  glass 
so  dot  der  beer  should  not  drop  on  der  swallow-tail 
shirt.    '  Izzy,'  I  says  to  him, '  I  am  astonished.' 

"  So  a  hour  vent  by  unt  den  comes  in  Miss 
Rabinowitz.  Ven  I  see  her  I  forget  all  about 
Isidore,  unt  about  everyt'ing  else.  Oh,  she  is  nice ! 
I  says,  '  Miss  Rabinowitz,  can  I  haf  der  pleasure 
uv  der  next  dance  ?  '  '  No,'  she  says, '  I  ain'd  danc- 
ing to-night  because  my  shoes  hurts  me.  But  ve 
can  haf  der  pleasure  of  sidding  out  der  next  dance 
togedder.'  Den  she  says  to  her  mamma,  '  Mamma, 
I  am  going  to  sid  out  der  next  dance  mit  dis  gentle- 
man friend  of  mine.    You  can  go  somevere  else  unt 

[143] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

enjoy  yourself.'  Dot  gave  me  a  idea.  '  Isidore,' 
I  says — ^Isidore  was  right  on  top  uv  my  heels — 
'  gif  Miss  Rabinowitz's  mamma  der  pleasure 
of  your  company  for  a  half -hour,  like  a  good 
friend.' 

"  Isidore  looks  a  million  daggers  in  my  eye,  but 
he  couldn't  say  nodding. 

"  He  had  to  do  it.  Unt  I  found  a  qviet  place 
where  it  vas  a  little  dark,  unt  Miss  Rabinowitz  sat 
close  by  me  unt  I  vas  holding  her  hand  unt  I  vas 
saying  to  myself, '  Moritz,  dis  is  der  opportunity  to 
tell  her  der  secret  of  your  Hfe- — to  ask  her  if  she 
vill  be  yours !  Her  old  man  has  a  big  factory  unt 
owns  free  houses ! '  Unt  den  I  looked  up,  unt  dere 
vas  Isidore. 

"  '  V'y  did  you  leave  Mrs.  Rabinowitz  ?  '  I  asked. 

He  gafe  me  a  terrible  look.    '  Moritz,'  he  says, '  Id 

iss  elefen  o'clock  unt  der  time  has  come.'     '  Vot 

time.'^ '  asked  Miss  Rabinowitz.    *  Oh,  Moritz  knows 

vot  I  mean,'  he  says.     So  I  excused  myself  for  a 

minute  unt  I  vispered  in  Izzy's  ear,  '  Izzy,'  I  says, 

*  if  you  love  me,  if  you  are  a  friend  of  mine,  if  you 

vant  to  do  me  der  greatest  favour  in  der  vorld — I 

ask  you  on  my  knees  to  gif  me  a  extra  half -hour! 
[144] 


I 


A    SWALLOW-TAILER    FOR    TWO 

Dis  iss  der  greatest  moment  uv  my  life ! '  But 
Isidore  only  shooked  his  head.  '  Elef  en  o'clock,' 
he  said.  '  Remember  der  agreement ! '  'A  qvarter 
of  a  hour,'  I  begged.  I  had  tears  in  my  eyes.  But 
Isidore  only  scraped  a  spot  off  my  swallow-tail 
shirt  unt  den  he  said,  '  Moritz,  I  vill  tell  you  vot 
I'll  do.  I  vouldn't  do  dis  for  nobody  else  in  der; 
vorld  except  my  best  friend.  You  can  wear  deri, 
suit  ten  minutes  longer  for  fifty  cents.  Does 
dot  suit  you.** '  Vot  could  I  do.?  I  looked  at  him 
mit  sorrow.  '  Isidore,'  I  said,  awful  sad,  '  I  didn't 
know  you  could  be  such  a  loafer !  But  you  haf  der 
advantage.     I  will  do  it.' 

"  He  even  made  me  pay  der  fifty  cents  cash  on 
der  spot,  unt  den  he  vent  off  to  a  corner  where  he 
could  keep  his  eyes  on  der  clock  unt  vatch  me  at  der 
same  time.  Dose  fifty  cents  vas  wasted.  How 
could  I  ask  a  lady  to  marry  me  mit  dem  big  eyes  of 
Isidore  keeping  a  sharp  watch  on  der  clothes  I  had 
on.? 

"  '  Id  iss  no  use.  Miss  Rabinowitz,'  I  says.     '  I 

had  a  matter  uv  terrible  importance  vot  I  vanted  to 

tell  you,  but  my  friend  iss  in  great  trouble,  unt  ven 

Isidore  has  troubles  in   his   heart,   my   heart   iss 

[145] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

heavy ! '  '  Oh,'  she  says,  so  sveet,  '  you  are  such  a 
nobleman !  It  makes  der  tears  come  to  my  eyes  to 
hear  of  such  friendships ! ' 

"  Dot  vill  show  you  vot  a  prize  she  vas.  I  hated 
to  tell  her  a  lie,  but  vot  could  I  do?  So  I  says  I 
haf  to  go  out  mit  Izzy  unt  get  him  out  of  his 
trouble,  but  at  der  end  of  two  hours  I  come  back. 
'  I  will  wait  for  you,'  she  says.  Unt  den,  mit  a 
cold,  murder  eye,  I  goes  to  Isidore  unt  says  to  him, 
'  Come,  false  friend !    I  keep  der  agreement ! ' 

"  So  Isidore  dusts  off  my  coat  unt  says  he  found 
a  room  upstairs  where  ve  could  change  der  clothes. 
Ven  ve  got  to  der  room  I  took  der  swallow-tail  even- 
ing-dress coat  off,  unt  der  vest  off,  unt  der  pants 
off,  unt  der  shirt  off,  unt  I  says  to  Isidore, '  Dere  iss 
not  a  spot  on  dem !  I  shall  expect  you  to  gif  dem 
back  to  me  in  der  same  condition  ven  der  two  hours 
iss  up.  Remember  dot ! '  Unt  den  a  horrible  idea 
comes  into  my  head.  '  Vot  am  I  going  to  wear.? ' 
I  says.  '  I  don't  know,'  says  Isidore.  He  had  al- 
ready put  der  pants  on.  '  Unt  I  don't  care,'  he 
says.  '  But  if  you  vant  to  put  my  clothes  on,  for 
friendship's  sake  I  lend  dem  to  you.' 

"  You  know  how  little  unt  fat  dot  Isidore  iss. 

[U6] 


A  SWALLOW-TAILER  FOR  TWO 
Unt  you  see  how  tall  unt  skinny  I  am.  But  vot 
could  I  do?  If  I  vent  home  to  put  on  my  own 
clothes  I  know  it  would  be  good-bye  Isidore  unt 
der  swallow-tail  evening  suit.  I  would  never  see 
dem  again.  I  couldn't  trust  dot  false  face.  '  Mo- 
ritz,'  I  says  to  myself,  '  don'd  leave  dot  swallow- 
tailer  out  uv  your  sight.  No  matter  how  foolish 
you  look  in  Isidore's  short  pants,  put  dem  on.  You 
aint  a  member  uv  der  Baron  Hirsch  Literary  Atzoj 
ciation.  You  don'd  care  if  your  appearances  isg 
against  you.  Stick  to  Isidore ! '  So  I  put  on  his 
old  suit.  My !  It  vas  so  shabby  after  dot  fine  swal- 
low-tailer!  Unt  I  felt  so  foolish!  But,  anyvay, 
dere  vas  vun  satisfaction.  Der  swallow-tailer  didn't 
fit  Isidore  a  bit.  He  had  to  roll  der  pants  up  in  der 
bottom.  Unt  der  shirt  vouldn't  keep  shut  in  front 
— ^he  vas  so  fat — unt  you  could  see  his  undershirt. 
I  nearly  laughed — he  looked  so  foolish.  But  I 
didn't  say  anyt'ing — nefer  again  I  vould  haf  no 
jokes  mit  Isidore.  Only  dot  vun  night — ^unt  after 
dot  our  friendships  vas  finished. 

"  So  ve  vent  to  der  Baron  Hirsch's  across  der 
street.    Ven  ve  got  by  der  door  Isidore  asked  me, 
astonished-like,  '  Haf  you  got  a  ticket,  Moritz? ' 
[H7J 


CHILDREN  OF  MEN 
*  No,'  I  says,  '  but  you  are  der  vice-president,  unt 
you  can  pass  in  your  friend.'  But  Isidore  shooked 
his  head.  *  Der  rules,'  he  said,  '  uv  der  Baron 
Hirsch  Literary  Atzociation  is  different  from  der 
rules  uv  der  Montefiore  Society.  Efrybody  vot 
ain'd  a  member  has  got  to  pay.' 

"  Say,  vasn't  dot  a  nasty  vun,  vot.?  But  vot 
could  I  do.?  It  cost  me  a  qvarter,  but  I  paid  it. 
Unt  as  soon  as  ve  got  in  by  der  ballroom  Isidore  got 
fresh.  '  Moritz,'  he  says,  '  ve  vill  let  gone-bys  be 
gone-bys,  unt  no  monkey  business.  I  vill  introduce 
you  to  a  nice  young  lady  vot  got  a  rich  uncle,  unt 
you  can  sit  unt  talk  mit  her  while  I  go  unt  haf  a 
good  time.  At  vun  o'clock  sharp  I  vill  come  back 
unt  keep  der  agreement.' 

" '  Isidore,'  I  says,  awful  proud,  '  vit  your  nice 
young  ladies  I  vill  got  nodding  to  do.  But  to 
show  you  dot  I  ain'd  no  loafer  I  vill  sit  out  in  der 
haU  unt  trust  you.' 

"  So  I  took  a  seat  all  by  myself.  My !  I  felt  so 
foolish  in  Izzy's  clothes !  Unt  Izzy  vent  inside  by 
der  wine-room,  where  dey  was  all  drinking  beer. 
*  Moritz,'  I  says  to  myself,  '  you  make  a  mistake 
to  haf  so  much  trust  in  dot  false  face.  Maybe  he 
[148] 


I 

I 


A  SWALLOW-TAILER  FOR  TWO 
iss  getting  spots  on  der  shirt.  Maybe  he  is  spilling 
beer  on  der  swallow-tailer.  He  iss  not  der  kind  uv 
a  man  to  take  good  care  vit  a  evening  dresser. 
'  Moritz,'  I  says  it  to  myself,  '  be  suspicious ! '  Unt 
dot  made  me  so  nervous  dot  I  couldn't  sit  still.  So 
I  vent  unt  took  a  peek  into  der  wine-room. 

"  Mein  Gott,  I  nearly  vent  crazy !  Dere  vas  dot 
loafer  mit  a  big  beer  spot  on  my  shirt  in  der 
front,  unt  drinking  a  glass  of  beer  unt  all  der 
foam  dropping  in  big,  terrible  drops  on  der  pants 
uv  der  swallow-tailer.  I  vent  straight  to  his  face 
unt  said,  '  Loafer,  der  agreement  is  broke.  You 
haf  got  spots  on  it.  You  are  a  false  vun ! '  Unt 
den  Isidore — loafer  vot  he  iss — punched  me  vun 
right  on  der  nose.  Vot  could  I  do.?  He  vas  der 
commencer.  I  vas  so  excited  dot  I  couldn't  say 
nodding.  I  punched  him  vun  back  unt  den  ve 
rolled  on  der  floor. 

"  Ve  punched  like  regular  prize-fighters.    I  done 

my  best  to  keep  der  swallow-tailer  clean,  unt  Izzy 

done  der  best  to  keep  his  suit  vot  I  had  on  clean, 

but  dere  vas  a  lot  of  beer  on  der  floor  unt  ven  der 

committee  come  unt  put  us  out  in  der  street — my ! 

ve  looked  terrible!     But  nobody  could  make  no 
[149] 


CHILDREN  OF  MEN 
more  monkey  business  vit  me  dat  night.  '  Izzy,'  I 
says — I  vas  holding  him  in  der  neck — *  take  dot 
evening  dresser  off  or  else  gif  up  all  hopes ! '  I 
vas  a  desperate  character,  unt  he  could  read  it  in 
der  tone  uv  my  voice.  He  took  der  swallow-tailer 
off — right  out  on  der  sidewalk  uv  der  street.  Den 
I  put  it  on  unt  I  vas  getting  all  dressed  while  he 
vas  standing  in  his  underclothes,  trying  to  insult 
me.  Unt  just  ven  I  got  all  dressed  unt  he  vas  stand- 
ing mit  der  pants  in  his  hands  calling  me  names  vot 
I  didn't  pay  no  attention  to,  but  vot  I  vill  get  re- 
venge for  some  time,  dere  comes  up  a  p'liceman. 
Ve  both  seen  him  together,  but  I  vas  a  qvicker 
t'inker  as  Isidore,  so  I  says,  '  Mister  P'liceman, 
dis  man  iss  calling  me  names.'  He  vas  a  Irisher,  dot 
p'liceman,  unt  he  hit  Izzy  vun  mit  his  club,  unt 
says, '  Vot  do  you  mean  by  comin'  in  der  street  mit- 
out  your  clothes  on  ?  You  are  a  prisoner ! '  So  I 
says,  '  Good-night,  Isidore ! '  unt  I  run  across  der 
street  to  der  Montefiore  ball.  Dey  all  looked  at 
me  ven  I  got  in  like  if  dey  wanted  to  talk  to  me,  but 
I  vas  finking  only  uv  Miss  Rabinowitz.  I  found 
her  by  her  mamma. 

"    Miss  Rabinowitz,'  I  says,  '  I  haf  kept  my 
il50] 


i 


A   SWALLOW-TAILER    FOR   TWO 

word.  I  promised  to  come  back,  unt  here  I  am ! ' 
She  gafe  me  a  look  vot  nearly  broked  my  heart. 
*  You  are  a  drunker,'  she  says. 

"  *  Miss  Rabinowitz,'  I  says,  '  dem  iss  hard 
words.'  '  Go  away,'  she  says.  '  You  look  like  a 
loafer.  Instead  of  helping  your  friend  you  haf 
been  drinking.'  Den  her  mamma  gafe  me  a  look 
unt  says,  '  Drunken  loafer,  go  'way  from  my 
daughter  or  I  will  call  der  police.' 

"  Vot  could  I  do?  As  proud  as  I  could  I  left  her. 
Den  a  committee  comes  up  to  me  unt  says, '  Moritz, 
go  home.  You  look  sick.'  Dey  vas  all  laughing. 
Den  somebody  says,  '  He  smells  like  a  brewery 
vagon.'    Vot  could  I  do.''    I  vent  home. 

"  Der  next  morning  Isidore  comes  home.  '  Mo- 
ritz,' he  says,  '  you  are  a  fool.'  I  gafe  him  vun 
look  in  his  eye.  '  Isidore,'  I  says, '  you  are  der  big- 
gest loafer  I  haf  efer  seen.'  Ve  haf  never  had  a  con- 
versation since  dot  day. 

"My!    Such  a  loafer!" 


[151] 


DEBORAH 


DEBORAH 

Her  name  was  Deborah.  When  Hazard  first 
saw  her  she  was  sitting  on  the  steps  of  a  tenement 
with  Berman  at  her  side,  Berman's  betrothal  ring 
on  her  finger,  Berman's  arm  around  her  waist. 
**  Beauty  and  the  beast !  "  Hazard  murmured  as  he 
stood  watching  them.  He  was  an  artist,  and  a 
search  for  the  picturesque  had  led  him  into  Hester 
Street — where  he  found  it. 

Presently  Hazard  crossed  the  street,  and,  with  a 
low  bow  and  an  air  of  modest  hesitation  that  be- 
came him  well,  begged  Berman  to  present  his  com- 
pliments to  the  young  lady  at  his  side  and  to  ask 
her  if  she  would  allow  an  enthusiastic  artist  to  make 
a  sketch  of  her  face.  Hester  Street  is  extremely 
unconventional.  Deborah  looked  up  into  the  blue 
eyes  of  the  artist,  and,  with  a  faint  blush,  freed 
herself  from  her  companion's  embrace.  Then  she 
smiled  and  told  the  artist  he  could  sketch  her.  In 
a  twinkling  Hazard  produced  book  and  pencil. 
[155] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

While  he  sketched  they  chatted  together,  ignoring 
Berman  completely,  who  sat  scowling  and  un- 
happy. When  the  sketch  was  finished  the  artist 
handed  it  to  Deborah  and  begged  her  to  keep  it. 
But  would  she  not  come  some  day  to  pose  for  him 
in  his  studio?  Her  mother  or  sister  or — with  a 
jerk  of  his  thumb — ^this  sturdy  chap  at  her  side 
could  accompany  her.  And  she  would  be  well 
paid.  Her  face  fitted  wonderfully  into  a  painting 
he  was  working  on,  and  he  had  been  looking  for  a 
model  for  weeks.  His  mother  lived  at  the  studio 
with  him — the  young  lady  would  be  well  cared  for 
— ^five  or  six  visits  would  be  sufficient — a  really  big 
painting.     Yes.     Deborah  would  go. 

When  Hazard  had  departed,  Deborah  turned  to 
her  lover  and  observed,  with  disappointment,  that 
he  looked  coarse  and  ill-favoured. 

"  It  is  getting  late,"  she  said.  "  I  am  going 
in." 

"  Why,  Liebchen,^'  Berman  protested.  "  It  is 
only  eight  o'clock !  " 

"  I  am  very  tired.     Good-night ! " 

Berman  sat  alone,  gazing  at  the  stars,  strug- 
gling vainly  to  formulate  in  distinct  thoughts  the 
[156] 


DEBORAH 

depth  and  profundity  of  his  love  for  Deborah  and 
the  cause  of  that  mysterious  feeling  of  unrest,  of 
unhappiness,  of  portending  gloom  that  had  sud- 
denly come  over  him.  But  he  was  a  simple-minded 
person,  and  his  brain  soon  grew  weary  of  this  un- 
accustomed work.  It  was  easier  to  fasten  his  gaze 
upon  a  single  star  and  to  marvel  how  its  brightness 
and  purity  reminded  him  so  strongly  of  Deborah. 

In  the  weeks  that  followed  he  saw  but  little  of 
Deborah,  and  each  time  he  observed  with  dismay 
that  a  change  had  come  over  the  girl.  In  the 
company  of  her  mother  she  had  been  visiting 
Hazard's  studio  regularly,  and  the  only  subject 
upon  which  Berman  could  get  her  to  talk  with  any 
degree  of  interest  was  the  artist  and  his  work. 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  wonderful  picture  that  he  is  paint- 
ing !  "  she  said.  "  It  is  the  picture  of  a  great 
queen,  with  a  man  kneeling  at  her  feet,  and  I  am 
the  queen.  I  sit  with  a  beautiful  fur  mantle  over 
my  shoulder,  and,  would  you  believe  it,  before  I 
have  been  sitting  five  minutes  I  begin  to  feel  as 
though  I  reaUy  were  a  queen.  He  is  a  great  artist. 
Mamma  sits  looking  at  the  picture  that  he  is  paint- 
ing hour  after  hour.  It  is  a  wonderful  likeness.  And 
[157] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

his  mother  is  so  kind  to  me.  She  has  given  me  such 
beautiful  dresses.  And  not  a  day  goes  by  but  what 
I  learn  something  new  and  good  from  her.  I  am 
so  ashamed  of  my  ignorance." 

"  Each  time  I  see  her,"  thought  Berman,  "  she 
grows  more  beautiful.  How  could  anyone  help 
painting  a  beautiful  picture  of  her?  She  is  grow- 
ing like  a  flower.  She  is  too  good,  too  sweet,  too 
beautiful  for  me !  " 

The  blow  came  swiftly,  unexpectedly.  She  came 
to  his  home  while  he  sat  at  supper  with  his  parents. 

"  Do  not  blame  me,"  she  said.  "  I  prayed  night 
after  night  to  God  to  make  me  love  you,  but  it 
would  not  come.  It  is  better  to  find  it  out  before  it 
is  too  late.  You  have  been  so  kind,  so  good  to  me 
that  it  breaks  my  heart.  Is  it  not  better  to  come 
to  you  and  to  tell  the  truth?  " 

Berman  had  turned  pale.  "  Is  it  the  painter  ?  " 
he  whispered.  A  flood  of  colour  surged  to  Deb- 
orah's cheeks.     Her  eyes  fell  before  his. 

"  He  is  a  Christian,  Deborah — a  Christian !  "  he 

murmured,  hoarsely.     Then  Deborah's  colour  left 

her  cheeks,  and  the  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

"I  know  it!     I  know  it!     But "    Then  with 

[158] 


K 


DEBORAH 

an  effort  she  drew  herself  up.     "  It  is  better  that 
we  should  part.     Good-bye !  " 

"  Good-bye ! "  said  Berman.  And  his  father 
arose  and  called  after  the  departing  figure: 
"  The  peace  of  God  go  with  you ! " 
With  an  artist's  eye  Hazard  had  been  quick 
to  perceive  the  beauty  of  Deborah,  and  the  possi- 
bilities of  its  development,  and,  with  an  artist's 
temperament,  he  derived  the  keenest  pleasure  from 
watching  that  beauty  grow  and  unfold.  Her  fre- 
quent presence,  the  touch  of  her  hand  and  cheek 
as  he  helped  her  to  pose,  her  merry  laughter,  and, 
above  all,  those  big,  trusting  brown  eyes  in  which 
he  read,  as  clear  as  print,  her  love,  her  adoration 
for  himself,  all  began  to  have  their  effect  upon 
him.  And,  one  day,  when  they  were  alone,  and 
suddenly  looking  up,  he  had  surprised  in  her  eyes  a 
look  of  such  tenderness  and  sweetness  that  his  brain 
reeled,  he  flung  his  brush  angrily  to  the  floor  and 
cried : 

"  Confound  it,  Deborah,  I  can't  marry  you ! " 

Deborah,  without  surprise,  without  wonderment, 

began  to  cry  softly :    "  I  know  it !    I  have  always 

known  it ! "  she  said.     And  when  he  saw  the  tears 

[159] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 
rolling  down  her  cheeks  he  sprang  to  her  side  and 
clasped    her    in   his    arms,    and   whispered    words 
of   love   in   her   ear,   and   kissed   her   again    and 
again. 

An  old  story,  is  it  not?  Aye,  as  old  as  life,  as 
old  as  sin !  And  always  the  same — so  monotonously 
the  same.  And  always  so  pitiful.  It  is  such  a 
tempting  path;  the  roses  bloom  redder  here,  and 
sweeter  than  anywhere  else  in  the  wide  world.  But 
there  is  always  the  darkness  at  the  end — ^the  same, 
weary  darkness — the  poor  eyes  that  erstwhile  shone 
so  brightly  grow  dim  in  the  vain  endeavour  to 
pierce  it. 

Like  a  flower  that  has  blossomed  to  full  maturity 
Deborah  began  to  wilt  and  fade.  Her  beauty 
quickly  vanished — beauty  in  Hester  Street  is  rarely 
durable — Deborah  grew  paler  and  paler,  thinner 
and  thinner.  To  do  him  full  justice  Hazard  was 
greatly  distressed.  It  was  a  great  pity,  he 
thought,  that  Deborah  had  not  been  born  a  Chris- 
tian. Had  she  been  a  Christian  he  could  have  mar- 
ried her  without  blasting  his  whole  future  career. 
As  it  was — Fate  had  been  cruel.    Let  Hazard  have 

full  justice. 

[160] 


I 


DEBORAH 

But  it  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  Berman  when 
Deborah's  mother  sent  for  him. 

'*  She  has  been  raving  for  two  days,  and  she 
keeps  calling  your  name!  Won't  you  sit  by  her 
bedside  for  a  while  ?     It  may  calm  her !  " 

His  heart  almost  stopped  beating  when  he  be- 
held how  frail  and  fever-worn  were  the  features 
that  he  had  loved  so  well.  When  he  took  her  hand 
in  his  the  touch  burned — burned  through  to  his 
heart,  his  brain,  his  soul. 

"  Berman  will  not  come !  "  she  cried.  "  He  was 
kind  to  me,  and  I  was  so  cruel.    He  will  not  come !  " 

Berman  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words  stuck  in 
his  throat.  Then,  with  that  sing-song  intonation 
of  those  who  are  delirious  with  brain  fever,  Deb- 
orah spoke — it  sounded  like  the  chanting  of  a 
dirge :  "  Ah,  he  was  so  cruel !  What  did  it  matter 
that  I  was  a  Jewess !  What  did  it  matter  that  he 
was  a  Christian !  I  never  urged  him,  because  I 
loved  him  so!  He  said  it  would  ruin  his  career! 
But,  oh,  he  could  have  done  it!  We  would  have 
been  so  happy !  Once  he  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross 
on  my  cheek.     But  I  told  him  I  would  become  a 

Christian  if  he  wanted  me  to.     What  did  I  care 
[161] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

for  my  religion?  I  cared  for  nothing  but  him! 
But  he  was  so  cruel }    So  cruel!     So  cruel!  " 

It  was  more  than  blood  could  stand.  With  a 
cry  of  anguish  Berman  fled  from  the  room.  In 
the  dawn  of  the  following  day  Deborah's  mother, 
grey  and  worn,  came  out  of  the  tenement.  She  saw 
Berman  sitting  on  the  steps.  "  It  is  over ! "  she 
said.  Berman  looked  at  her  and  slowly  nodded. 
"All  over!"  he  said. 

When  Hazard  awoke  that  morning  his  servant 
told  him  that  a  strange-looking  man  wished  to  see 
him  in  the  studio.  "  A  model,"  thought  Hazard. 
"  Tell  him  to  wait."  Berman  waited.  He  waited 
an  hour.  Then  the  Oriental  curtains  rustled,  and 
Hazard  appeared.  He  had  walked  halfway  across 
the  room  before  he  recognised  Berman.  He  recog- 
nised him  as  the  man  who  sat  beside  Deborah  when 
he  had  first  seen  her.  The  man  who  had  his  arm 
around  her  waist.  The  man  whom  he  had  referred 
to  as  a  sturdy  chap — who  had,  indeed,  looked 
strong  and  big  on  that  starry  night.  And  who 
now  loomed  before  his  eyes  in  gigantic  propor- 
tions. He  recognised  him — and  a  sudden  chill 
struck   his    heart.      Berman   walked   toward   him. 

[162] 


DEBORAH 

Without  a  word,  without  the  faintest  warning, 
he  clutched  the  artist  by  the  throat,  stifling  every 
sound.  The  artist  struggled,  as  a  mouse  struggles 
in  the  grasp  of  a  cat.  From  his  pocket  Berman 
drew  a  penknife.  He  could  hold  his  victim  easily 
with  one  hand.  He  opened  the  blade  with  his 
teeth.  As  a  man  might  bend  a  reed,  Berman  bent 
the  artist's  back  until  his  head  rested  upon  his 
knee.  Then,  quickly,  he  slashed  him  twice  across 
the  cheek,  making  the  sign  of  a  cross. 

"  You  might  have  married  her ! "  he  whispered, 
hoarsely.  Then  he  threw  the  helpless  figure  from 
him  and  slowly  walked  out  of  the  room. 

The  newspapers  told  next  day,  how  a  maniac 
had  burst  into  the  studio  of  Hazard,  the  distin- 
guished young  painter,  and  without  the  slightest 
provocation  had  cut  him  cruelly  about  the  face. 
The  police  were  on  the  slasher's  trail,  but  Hazard 
doubted  if  he  could  identify  the  man  again  if  he 
saw  him.  "  It  was  so  unexpected,"  he  said.  To 
this  day  he  carries  a  curious  mark  on  his  right 
cheek — exactly  like  a  cross. 


[16S] 


AN    INTERRUPTION 


I 


AN    INTERRUPTION 

In  the  story  books  the  tragedies  of  life  work 
themselves  out  to  more  or  less  tragic  conclusions. 
In  real  life  the  most  tragic  tragedies  are  those  that 
have  no  conclusion — that  can  have  no  conclusion 
until  death  writes  "  Finis ! "  From  which  one 
might  argue  that  many  of  us  would  be  better  off 
if  we  lived  in  novels.  Chertoff,  however,  lived  in 
Hester  Street,  and  therefore  had  to  abide  by  his 
destiny. 

Chertoff  was  a  hunchback.  He  had  a  huge 
head  and  tremendously  long  arms  and  features  of 
waxen  pallor.  Children  who  saw  him  for  the  first 
time  would  run  from  him  with  fright  and  would 
hide  in  doorways  until  he  had  passed.  Yet  those 
who  knew  him  loved  him,  for  under  his  repellent 
exterior  throbbed  a  warm  heart,  and  his  nature 
was  kindly  and  cheering.  In  Gurtman's  sweat- 
shop, where  he  toiled  from  dawn  to  nightfall,  he 
was  loved  by  all — that  is,  all  save  Gurtman — for 

[167] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

when  the  day's  task  seemed  hardest  and  the  dick 
and  roar  of  the  machines  chanted  the  song  of 
despair  that  all  sweatshop  workers  know  so  well, 
Chertoff  would  burst  into  a  lively  tune  and  fill  the 
room  with  gladness.  Then  he  would  gossip  and 
tell  interesting  stories  and  bandy  jests  with  any- 
one in  the  room  who  showed  the  slightest  disposi- 
tion to  contribute  a  moment's  gaiety  to  the  dreary, 
heart-breaking  routine. 

It  was  before  the  days  of  the  factory  inspectors, 
and  conditions  were  bad — ^so  bad  that  if  anyone 
were  to  tell  you  how  bad  they  were  you  would  never 
believe  it.  In  those  days  a  bright  spirit  in  a  sweat- 
shop was  no  common  thing.  One  day  Gurtman 
announced  that  there  would  be  a  reduction  of  three 
cents  on  piece-work,  and  a  great  silence  fell  upon 
the  room.  A  woman  gasped  as  if  something  had 
struck  her.  And  ChertofF  struck  up  a  merry 
Russian  tune: 

"  The  miller  in  his  Sunday  clothes 
Came  riding  into  Warsaw." 

"Why  do  you  always  sing  those  silly  tunes?" 

Gurtman  asked,  peevishly. 

And  then  ChertofF  closed  his  eyes  and  answered: 
[168] 


AN    INTERRUPTION 

"  Perhaps  to  save  your  life!     Who  knows?  '* 

Then  he  opened  his  eyes  and  laughed,  and  many 
laughed  with  him  at  the  very  silliness  of  the  retort, 
but  the  sweater  only  disliked  him  the  more  for  it. 
It  was  a  curious  habit  of  Chertoff's  to  close  his 
eyes  when  something  stung  him,  and  it  worked  a 
startHng  transformation  in  his  expression.  It 
was  as  if  a  light  had  been  extinguished  and  a  sud- 
den gloom  had  overspread  his  features.  The  lines 
became  sharp,  and  something  sinister  would  creep 
into  his  countenance.  But  in  a  moment  his  eyes 
would  open  and  a  light  of  kindness  would  illumine 
his  face. 

Twice  this  transformation  had  come  upon  him 
and  had  lingered  long  enough  to  make  the  room 
uneasy.  The  first  time  was  when  Chertoffs 
mother,  who  had  worked  at  the  machine  side  by  side 
with  her  son  for  five  years,  was  summarily  dis- 
missed. Chertoff  had  asked  the  sweater  for  the 
reason.  In  the  hearing  of  all  the  room  Gurtman 
had  curtly  replied: 

"  She's  too  old  for  work.     She's  too  slow.     I 

don't  want  her." 

They  thought  that  Chertoff  was   fainting,  so 
[169] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

ashen  and  so  haggard  did  his  features  become. 
But  when  he  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled  the  iron 
rod  that  he  held  in  his  hands  was  seen  by  all  to 
have  been  bent  almost  double.  The  other  time — 
and  oh!  how  this  must  have  rankled! — was  when 
Gurtman  jestingly  taunted  ChertofF  with  being 
enamoured  of  Babel.  For  it  was  true.  ChertofF, 
in  addition  to  his  skill  as  a  workman,  was  an  expert 
mechanic,  and  was  quite  valuable  in  the  shop  in 
keeping  the  sewing  machines  in  repair.  He  was 
sitting  under  a  machine  with  a  big  screw-driver  in 
his  hand  when  Gurtman,  in  a  burst  of  pleasantry, 
asked  him  if  it  were  true  that  he  loved  Babel.  For 
a  long  time  no  answer  came.  Then  the  screw- 
driver rolled  to  the  sweater's  feet,  crumpled  almost 
into  a  ball,  and  ChertofF's  merry  voice  rang  out : 
"  Of  course  I  love  Babel!  Who  does  not.?  " 
And  then  all  laughed — all  save  Babel,  who  red- 
dened and  frowned,  for,  with  all  her  poverty  and 
with  all  the  struggle  for  existence  that  had  been 
her  lot  since  she  was  old  enough  to  tread  a  pedal. 
Babel  was  a  sensitive  creature,  and  did  not  like  to 
hear  her  name  flung  to  and  fro  in  the  sweatshop. 
Was  Babel  pretty  ?  "  When  a  girl  has  lovely 
[170] 


AN    INTERRUPTION 

eyes,*'  says  the  Talmud,  "  it  is  a  token  that  she  is 
pretty."  Babel  had  lovely  eyes,  and  must,  there- 
fore, have  been  pretty.  Yet  what  matters  it? 
ChertofF  was  eating  out  his  heart  with  vain  longing 
for  Babel,  suffering  all  the  tortures  of  unrequited 
passion,  all  the  agonies  that  he  suffers  who  yearns 
with  all  the  strength  of  his  being  to  possess  what 
he  knows  can  never  be  his.  Is  not  that  the  true 
tragedy  of  life?  So  what  matters  it  if  Babel  be 
not  to  your  taste  or  mine  ?     Chertoff  loved  her. 

He  had  never  told  Babel  that  he  loved  her; 
never  had  asked  her  whether  she  cared  for  him. 
He  had  spared  himself  added  misery.  Content  to 
suffer,  he  did  his  best  to  conceal  his  hopeless  pas- 
sion, and  strove  with  all  his  might  to  lighten  the 
burden  of  gloom  that  was  the  lot  of  his  fellow- 
workers.  He  never  could  understand,  however, 
why  the  sweater  had  taken  so  strong  a  dislike  to 
him.  Surely  Gurtman  could  envy  him  nothing. 
Why  should  a  strong,  fine-looking  man — a  rich 
man,  too,  as  matters  went  in  Hester  Street — ^take 
pleasure  in  tormenting  an  ugly,  good-natured 
cripple?      It  was  strange,  yet  true.     Perhaps  it 

was  that  ChertofF's  cheery  disposition  grated  upon 
[171] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

the  brooding,  gloomy  temperament  of  the  sweater, 
or  perhaps  the  cripple's  popularity  in  the  sweat- 
shop was  an  offence  in  his  employer's  eyes,  or  per- 
haps it  was  merely  one  of  those  unreasoning  an- 
tipathies that  one  man  often  feels  toward  another 
and  for  which  he  can  give  not  the  slightest  explana- 
tion. It  was  an  undeniable  fact,  however,  that  the 
sweater  hated  his  hunchback  employee,  and  would 
never  have  tolerated  him  had  Chertoff  not  been  so 
valuable  a  workman,  and,  deeming  it  unprofitable 
to  discharge  him,  vented  his  dislike  in  baiting  and 
tormenting  Chertoff  whenever  an  opportunity 
offered  itself.  And  had  it  not  been  for  Babel, 
Chertoff  would  have  gone  elsewhere.  Hopeless 
though  he  knew  his  longing  to  be,  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  part  from  her  presence. 

And  so  matters  went  until  a  summer's  night 
brought  an  interruption,  and  this  interruption  is 
the  only  excuse  for  this  tale.  It  had  been  a  busy 
day,  and  the  sweatshop  was  working  late  into  the 
night  to  finish  its  work.  It  had  been  a  hot  day, 
too,  and  men  and  women  were  nigh  exhausted.  The 
thermometer  was  ninety-five  in  the  street,  but  in 
this  room,  you  know,  were  four  tremendous  stoves 

[173] 


AN    INTERRUPTION 

at  full  blast  to  keep  the  irons  hot.  And  the 
machines  had  been  roaring  almost  since  daybreak, 
and  the  men  and  women  were  pale  and  weary  and 
half  suffocated.  Chertoff  had  been  watching 
Babel  anxiously  for  nearly  an  hour.  She  had  lost 
her  pallor  and  her  face  had  become  slightly  flushed, 
which  is  a  bad  sign  in  a  sweatshop.  He  feared  the 
strain  was  becoming  too  great,  and  the  thoughts 
that  crowded  one  upon  another  in  his  wearied  brain 
were  beginning  to  daze  him.  He  made  a  heroic 
effort. 

"  Come,  Babel,"  he  said,  "  if  you  will  stop  work 
and  listen  I'll  sing  that  song  you  like." 

"  Sing   it !     Sing   it ! "   cried   fifty   voices,   al- 
though no  one  looked  up. 

"  Not  unless  Babel  stops  working,"  said  Chertoff, 
smiling. 

"  Stop  working.  Babel !  Stop  working !  We 
want  a  song ! "  they  all  cried.  So  Babel  stopped 
working  and,  with  a  grateful  nod  to  Chertoff, 
folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  settled  herself 
comfortably  in  her  chair  and  fastened  her  eyes 
upon  the  door  that  led  into  the  rear  room.  Gurt- 
man  was  in  this  rear  room  filling  the  benzine  cans, 
[173] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 

ChertofF  began  to  sing.  It  was  an  old  Russian 
folk-song,  and  it  began  like  this : 

*'  8ang  a  little  bird,  and  sang. 

And  grew  silent; 
Knew  the  heart  of  merriment. 

And  forgot  it. 
Why,  O  little  songster  bird. 

Grew  you  quiet? 
How  learned  you,  O  heart,  to  know 

Oloomy  sorrow?" 

He  had  sung  this  far  when  the  door  of  the  rear 
room  was  flung  open  and  Gurtman,  in  angry  mood, 
cried : 

"  In  God's  name  stop !  That  singing  of  yours 
is  making  my  back  as  crooked  as  yours ! " 

Chertoff  turned  swiftly,  with  arm  upraised,  but 
before  he  could  utter  a  word  a  huge  flame  of  fire 
shot  from  the  open  doorway  and  enveloped  the 
sweater,  and  a  crash,  loud  as  a  peal  of  thunder, 
filled  the  room. 

The  benzine  had  exploded.  In  a  twinkling 
bright  flames  seemed  to  dart  from  every  nook  and 
cranny,  and  the  wall  between  the  two  rooms  was 
torn  asunder.  Then  a  panic  of  screams  and  fren- 
zied cries  arose,  and  the  workers  ran  wildly,  some 
[174] 


AN    INTERRUPTION 

to  the  door,  some  to  the  windows  that  looked  down 
upon  the  street  four  stories  below,  some  trying 
frantically  to  tear  their  way  through  the  solid 
walls.  The  voice  of  Chertoff  rose  above  the  tumult. 
"Follow  me!"  he  cried.  "Don't  be  afraid!" 
He  seized  Babel,  who  had  fainted,  laid  her  gently 
upon  his  misshapen  shoulder,  and  led  the  way  into 
an  adjoining  room  where  the  windows  opened  upon 
a  fire  escape.  "  Take  your  time,"  he  cried. 
"  Follow  me  slowly  down  the  ladders.  There  is  no 
danger." 

Once  out  of  sight  of  the  flames  calmness  was  soon 
restored,  and  one  by  one  they  slowly  descended  the 
iron  ladders,  following  the  lead  of  the  hunchback 
with  his  burden.  Babel  soon  regained  conscious- 
ness. She  looked  wildly  from  face  to  face  and 
then,  clutching  ChertofF's  arm,  asked  hoarsely, 
"Gurtman!     Where  is  he?     Is  he  safe.?" 

ChertofF  smiled.  "Do  not  worry.  Babel.  He 
probably  will  never  torment  a  human  being 
again ! " 

Babel  relaxed  her  hold  and  every  drop  of  blood 
left  her  face.  She  began  to  moan  pitifully :  "  I 
loved  him !  I  loved  him !  "  She  buried  her  face 
[175] 


CHILDREN  OF  MEN 
in  her  hands  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  weeping. 
Chertoff 's  eyes  closed.  A  look  of  hatred,  unutter- 
able, venomous  hatred,  flashed  into  his  face.  He 
swayed  to  and  fro  with  clenched  fists,  as  though 
he  would  fall.  Then  swiftly  he  raised  his  head, 
his  eyes  opened,  and  a  smile  overspread  his  face. 
"  Wait,  Babel,"  he  whispered.  "  Wait !  "  With 
the  agility  of  a  gorilla  he  sprang  upon  the  iron 
ladder  and  climbed  swiftly  upward.  The  bright 
moon  cast  a  weird,  twisting  shadow  upon  the  wall 
of  the  house,  as  of  some  huge,  misshapen  beast. 
He  reached  the  fourth  story  and  disappeared 
through  the  open  window,  whence  the  smoke  had 
already  begun  to  creep.  Presently  he  reappeared 
with  the  form  of  Gurtman  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
slowly  descended.  With  the  utmost  gentleness  he 
laid  his  burden  upon  the  ground  and  placed  his 
hand  over  the  heart.  Then  he  looked  up  into 
Babel's  face. 

"  He  is  alive.  He  is  not  hurt  much."  Then 
Babel  cried  as  though  her  heart  would  break,  and 
Chertoff — went  home. 

Gurtman  lived.     He  lived,  and  in  a  few  days 
the  sweatshop  was  running  again  exactly  as  it  had 
[176] 


AN    INTERRUPTION 

run  before,  and  everything  else  went  on  exactly  as 
it  had  gone  on  before.  Perhaps  Chertoff's  pale 
face  became  a  trifle  whiter,  but  that  only  brought 
out  his  ugliness  the  more  vividly.  He  was  a  splen- 
did workman,  and  Gurtman  could  not  afford  to  lose 
him.  Sometimes  when  the  task  was  hard  he  sang 
that  old  song: 

"  Sang  a  little  bird,  and  sang. 

And  grew  silent; 
Knew  the  heart  of  merriment. 

And  forgot  it. 
Why,  O  little  songster  bird, 

Grew  you  quiet? 
How  learned  you,  O  heart,  to  know 

Qloomy  sorrow?  '* 


[177] 


THE    MURDERER 


I 


I 


THE    MURDERER 


When  Marowitz  arrived  at  the  station-house  to 
report  for  duty,  the  sergeant  gazed  at  him  curi- 
ously. 

"  You're  to  report  at  headquarters  immedi- 
ately," he  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  for.  The 
Chief  just  sent  word  that  he  wants  to  see  you." 

Marowitz  looked  bewildered.  Summons  to  head- 
quarters usually  meant  trouble.  Rewards  usually 
came  through  the  precinct  Captain.  Marowitz 
wondered  what  delinquency  he  was  to  be  repri- 
manded for.  He  could  think  of  nothing  that  he 
had  done  in  violation  of  the  regulations. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  stood  in  the  presence  of 
the  Chief. 

"  You  sent  for  me,"  he  said. 

The  Chief  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  "  What 
is  your  name?  "  he  asked. 

"  Marowitz." 

The  Chief's  face  lit  up.  "Oh,  yes,"  he  said. 
[181] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

"  From  the  Eldridge  Street  station.  Do  you  speak 
the  Yiddish  jargon?  " 

Marowitz  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  answered.  "  I  live  in  the  Jewish 
quarter." 

"  Good,"  said  the  Chief.  "  I  want  you  to  lay 
aside  your  uniform  and  put  on  citizen's  clothes. 
Then  go  and  look  for  a  chap  named  Gratzberg. 
He  is  a  Russian,  and  is  wanted  in  Odessa  for  mur- 
der. He  is  supposed  to  be  hiding  somewhere  in  the 
Jewish  quarter  here.  You'll  have  no  trouble  in 
spotting  him  if  you  run  across  him.  Here," — ^the 
Chief  drew  a  slip  of  paper  from  his  desk — "  here 
is  the  cabled  description:  Height,  five  feet  seven; 
weight,  about  150  pounds.  Has  a  black  beard. 
Blue  eyes.  Right  ear  marked  on  top  by  deep 
scar." 

He  handed  the  paper  to  Marowitz. 

*'  Keep  your  eyes  open,"  he  said,  "  for  marked 
ears.  It  '11  be  a  big  thing  for  you  if  you  catch 
him.  When  I  was  your  age  I  would  have  given 
the  world  for  a  chance  like  this.'* 

When  Marowitz  left  headquarters  he  walked  on 

air.     Here  was  a  chance,  indeed.     He  had  been  a 
[182] 


THE    MURDERER 

policeman  for  nearly  six  years,  and  in  all  that  time 
there  had  come  no  opportunity  to  distinguish  him- 
self through  heroism  or  skill,  or  through  any 
achievement,  save  the  faithful  performance  of 
routine  duty.  His  heart  now  beat  high  with  hope. 
How  pleased  his  wife  would  be!  His  name  would 
be  in  all  the  newspapers.  "  The  Murderer  Caught ! 
Officer  Marowitz  Runs  Him  to  Earth!"  Officer 
Marowitz  already  enjoyed  the  taste  of  the  intoxi- 
cating cup  of  fame. 

In  mounting  the  stairs  of  the  tenement  where  he 
lived  Marowitz  nearly  stumbled  over  the  figure  of 
a  little  boy  who  was  busily  engaged  in  playing 
Indian,  lurking  in  the  darkness  in  wait  for  a  foe  to 
come  along.  The  next  moment  the  little  figure  was 
scrambling  over  him,  shouting  with  delight: 

"  It's  papa !  Come  to  play  Indian  with 
Bootsy!" 

"  Hello,  little  rascal ! "  cried  the  policeman. 
"  Papa  can't  play  to-day.  Got  to  go  right  out 
after  naughty  man." 

Suddenly  an  idea  came  to  him. 

"  Want  to  come  along  with  papa,  little  Boots  ?  " 

he  asked.     The  little  fellow  yelled  with  joy  at  the 
[183] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

prospect  of  this  rare  treat.  He  was  six  years  old, 
and  had  blue  eyes  and  a  winsome  face.  His  real 
name  was  Hermann,  but  an  infantile  tendency  to 
chew  for  hours  all  the  shoes  and  boots  of  the  house- 
hold had  fastened  upon  him  the  name  of  "  Boots," 
by  which  all  the  neighbourhood  knew  him  and  loved 
him.  An  hour  later,  and  all  that  day,  and  all  the 
next  day,  and  the  day  after  for  a  whole  week, 
Marowitz  and  his  little  son  wandered,  apparently 
in  aimless  fashion,  up  and  down  the  streets  of  the 
East  Side.  The  companionship  of  the  boy  was  as 
good  as  a  thousand  disguises.  It  would  have  been 
difficult  to  imagine  anything  less  detective-like  or 
police-like  than  this  amiable-looking  young  father 
taking  his  son  out  for  a  holiday  promenade. 

Occasionally  they  would  wander  into  one  or  an- 
other of  the  Jewish  cafes,  where  little  Boots 
ascended  to  the  seventh  heaven  of  joy  in  sweet 
drinks  while  Marowitz  gazed  about  him,  carelessly, 
for  a  man  with  a  dark  beard  and  a  marked  ear.  In 
one  of  these  cafes,  happening  to  pick  up  a  Russian 
newspaper,  he  read  an  account  of  the  crime  with 
which  this  man  Gratzberg  was  charged.  It  ap- 
peared that  Gratzberg,  while  returning  from  the 
[184] 


THE   MURDERER 

synagogue  with  his  wife,  had  accidently  jostled  a 
young  soldier.  The  soldier  had  struck  him,  and 
abused  him  for  a  vile  Jew,  and  Gratzberg,  knowing 
the  futility  of  resenting  the  insult,  had  edged  out 
of  the  soldier's  way,  and  was  passing  on  when  he 
heard  a  scream  from  his  wife.  The  soldier,  at- 
tracted by  the  woman's  comeliness,  had  thrown  his 
arms  around  her,  saying,  "  I  will  take  a  kiss  from 
those  Jewish  lips  to  wipe  out  the  insult  to  which 
I  have  been  subjected."  In  sudden  fury  Gratz- 
berg rushed  upon  the  soldier,  and,  with  a  light  cane 
which  he  carried,  made  a  swift  thrust  into  his  face. 
The  soldier  fell  to  the  ground,  dead.  The  thin 
point  of  the  cane  had  entered  his  eye  and  pierced 
through  into  the  brain.  Gratzberg  turned  and 
fled,  and  from  that  moment  no  man  had  seen 
him. 

Marowitz  laid  down  the  paper  and  frowned.  He 
sat  for  a  long  time,  plunged  in  thought.  Then, 
with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  he  muttered,  "  Duty 
is  duty."  And,  taking  little  Boots  by  the  hand, 
he  resumed  his  search  for  the  man  with  the  black 
beard  and  the  marked  ear. 

It  was  a  long  and  tedious  search,  and  almost  bar- 

[185] 


I 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

ren  in  clues.  Two  men  whom  he  approached — - 
men  whom  he  knew — remembered  having  seen  a 
man  who  answered  the  description,  but  their  recol- 
lection was  too  dim  to  afford  him  the  slightest  as- 
sistance. In  the  course  of  the  week  he  had  made  a 
dozen  visits  to  every  cafe,  restaurant,  and  meeting 
place  in  the  neighbourhood,  had  conscientiously 
patrolled  every  street,  both  by  day  and  by  night, 
had  gone  into  many  stores,  and  followed  the  de- 
livery of  nearly  all  the  Russian  newspapers  that 
came  into  that  quarter.  But  without  a  glimpse  of 
the  man  with  the  marked  ear. 

There  came  a  night  when  the  heat  grew  so  in- 
tense, and  the  atmosphere  so  humid  and  suffocating 
that  nearly  every  house  in  the  Ghetto  poured  out 
its  denizens  into  the  street  to  seek  relief.  Numer- 
ous parties  made  their  way  to  the  river,  to  lounge 
about  the  docks  and  piers,  where  a  light  breeze 
brought  grateful  relief  from  the  intense  heat. 

"  Want  to  go  down  to  the  river.  Boots  ?  "  asked 
Marowitz. 

The  lad's  eyes  brightened.     He  was  worn  out 

with  the  heat,  and  too  weary  to  speak.    He  laid  his 

little  hand  in  his  father's,  and  they  went  down  to  the 
[186] 


THE    MURDERER 

river.  Marowitz  walked  down  a  long  pier,  crowded 
with  people,  and  peered  into  the  face  of  every  man 
he  saw.  They  were  all  peaceful  workingmen,  op- 
pressed by  the  heat,  and  seeking  rest,  and  none 
among  them  had  marked  ears.  The  cool  breeze 
acted  like  a  tonic  upon  little  Boots.  In  a  few  min- 
utes he  had  joined  a  group  of  children  who  were 
running  out  and  screaming  shrilly  at  play,  and 
presentl}-^  his  merry  voice  could  plainly  be  distin- 
guished above  all  the  rest.  Marowitz  seated  him- 
self on  the  string-piece  at  the  end  of  the  pier,  and 
leaned  his  head  against  a  post  in  grateful,  con- 
tented repose.  His  mind  went  ruefully  over  his 
week's  work. 

"  He  cannot  be  in  this  neighbourhood,"  he 
thought,  "  else  I  would  have  found  some  trace  of 
him.  I  have  left  nothing  undone.  I  have  worked 
hard  and  faithfully  on  this  assignment.  But  luck 
is  against  me.  To-morrow  I  will  have  to  report — 
failure." 

It  was  a  depressing  thought.  He  had  had  his 
chance  and  had  failed.  Promotion — the  rosy  dawn 
of  fame — became  dimmer  and  dimmer.  Now  sud- 
denly rose  a  scream  of  terror,  followed  instantly 
[187] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

by  a  loud  splash.  Then  a  hubbub  of  voices  and 
cries.  Then,  out  of  the  black  water,  a  wild  cry, 
"  Papa !  Papa !  "  Even  before  the  people  began  to 
run  toward  him  Marowitz  realised  that  Boots  had 
fallen  into  the  river.  A  swift,  sharp  pang  of  dread, 
of  horrible  fear,  shot  through  him.  He  saw  the 
white,  upturned  face  floating  by — sprang  swiftly, 
blindly  into  the  water.  And  not  until  the  splash, 
when  the  shock  of  the  cold  water  struck  him,  at 
the  very  moment  when  he  felt  the  arms  of  little 
Boots  envelop  him,  and  felt  the  strong  current 
sweeping  them  along — not  until  then  did  Marowitz 
remember  that  he  could  not  swim  a  stroke. 

"Help!  Help!"  he  cried,  at  the  top  of  his 
voice.  But  the  lights  of  the  pier  had  already  be- 
gun to  fade.  The  cries  of  the  people  were  rapidly 
dying  out  into  a  low  hum.  It  was  ebb  tide,  swift 
and  relentless  as  death.  A  twist  in  the  current 
carried  them  in  toward  another  pier — deserted — 
and  dark — ^save  for  a  faint  gleam  of  light  that 
shone  through  an  aperture  below  the  string-piece 
and  threw  a  dancing  trail  of  dim  brightness  upon 
the  water. 

*'  Help !     Help !  "  cried  Marowitz,  in  despair. 
[188] 


THE    MURDERER 

He  heard  an  answering  cry.  The  faint  light  had 
suddenly  been  cut  off;  the  opening  through  which 
it  had  shone  had  suddenly  been  enlarged;  Maro- 
witz  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  emerge. 

"  Help !    For  God's  sake !  "  he  cried. 

The  man  chmbed  quickly  to  the  top  of  the  pier, 
shouting  something  which  Marowitz  could  not  dis- 
tinguish— seized  a  great  log  which  lay  upon  the 
pier,  and,  holding  it  in  his  arms,  sprang  into  the 
water.  A  few  quick  strokes  brought  him  to  Maro- 
witz's  side.  He  pushed  forward  the  log  so  that 
the  policeman  could  grasp  it.  Then,  allowing  the 
current  to  carry  them  down  the  stream,  yet,  by 
slow  swimming  guiding  the  log  nearer  and  nearer 
toward  the  shore,  the  man  was  finally  able  to  grasp 
the  rudder  of  a  ship  at  anchor  in  a  dock.  A  few 
moments  later  they  stood  upon  the  deck,  sur- 
rounded by  the  crew  of  the  ship;  the  loungers  of 
the  wharf  alongside  gazing  down  upon  them  in 
curiosity.  Boots  was  safe  and  uninjured.  The 
moment  he  felt  his  feet  firmly  planted  on  the  ship's 
deck  he  burst  into  wild  wailing,  and  Marowitz,  with 
his  hand  upon  his  heart,  murmured  thanks  to  God. 

Then  he  turned  to  thank  his  rescuer,  who  stood, 
[189  J 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

with  the  water  dripping  from  him,  under  a  ship's 
lantern.  The  next  moment  Marowitz's  out- 
stretched hand  fell,  as  if  stricken,  to  his  side,  and 
he  stood  stock  still,  bewildered.  The  lantern's  rays 
fell  upon  the  man's  ear,  illuminating  a  deep  red 
scar.  The  water  was  dripping  from  the  man's 
long  black  beard.  And  when  he  saw  Marowitz 
draw  back,  and  saw  his  gaze  fastened  as  if  fasci- 
nated upon  that  scarred  ear,  a  ghastly  pallor  over- 
spread the  man's  face.  For  a  moment  they  stood 
thus,  gazing  at  each  other.  Then  Marowitz  strode 
forward  impetuously,  seized  the  man's  hand,  and 
carried  it  to  his  lips,  and  in  the  Yiddish  jargon 
said  to  him: 

"  You  have  saved  my  boy's  life.  You  have 
saved  my  life.  May  the  blessing  of  the  Lord  be 
upon  you ! " 

Marowitz  then  took  his  son  in  his  arms  and 
walked  briskly  homeward. 

"  What  luck?  "  asked  the  Chief  next  day,  when 
he  reported  at  headquarters.  Marowitz  shook  his 
head. 

"  They  must  be  mistaken.  He  is  not  in  the 
Jewish  quarter." 

[190] 


I 


THE    MURDERER 

The  Chief  frowned.  Then  Marowitz,  with 
heightened  colour,  said: 

*'  I  want  to  resign.  I — I  don't  think  I'm  cut 
out  for  a  good  detective." 

"H'm!"  said  the  Chief.  "I  guess  you're 
right." 


[1911 


UNCONVERTED 


UNCONVERTED 

The  Reverend  Thomas  Gillespie  (it  may  have 
been  William — I  am  not  sure  of  his  first  name) 
noticed  a  tall  old  man  with  fierce  brown  eyes 
standing  in  the  front  of  the  crowd.  Then  a  stone 
struck  the  Reverend  Gillespie  in  the  face.  The 
crowd  pressed  in  upon  him,  and  it  would  have  gone 
ill  with  the  preacher  if  the  tall,  brown-eyed  man 
had  not  turned  upon  the  crowd  and,  in  a  voice  that 
drowned  every  other  sound,  cried : 

"  Touch  him  not !    Stand  back !  " 

The  crowd  hesitated  and  halted.  The  tall  man 
had  turned  his  back  upon  the  Reverend  Gillespie, 
and  now  stood  facing  the  rough-looking  group. 

"  Touch  him  not ! "  he  repeated.  "  He  is  an 
honest  man.  He  means  us  no  harm.  He  is  but 
acting  according  to  his  lights.  He  is  only  mis- 
taken. Whoever  throws  another  stone  is  an  out- 
cast. '  Before  me,'  said  the  Lord,  '  there  is  no 
difference  between  Jew  and  Gentile;  he  that  ac- 
f  195  ] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 

complishes  good  will  I  reward  accordingly.' 
Friends,  go  your  way ! " 

In  a  few  minutes  the  entire  crowd  had  dispersed ; 
the  tall  man  was  helping  the  clergyman  to  his  feet, 
and  the  first  "  open-air  meeting  "  of  the  Reverend 
Gillespie's  "  Mission  to  the  East  Side  Jews  "  had 
come  to  an  end.  The  Reverend's  cheek  was  bleed- 
ing, and  the  tall  man  helped  him  staunch  the  flow 
of  blood  with  the  aid  of  a  handkerchief  that  seemed 
to  have  seen  patriarchal  days. 

"  Friend,"  he  then  said  to  the  clergyman,  "  can 
you  spare  a  few  moments  to  accompany  me  to  my 
home.f'  It  is  close  by,  and  I  would  like  to  speak  to 
you." 

The  clergyman's  head  was  in  a  whirl.  The  hap- 
penings of  the  past  few  minutes  had  dazed  him. 
He  was  a  young  man  and  enthusiastic,  and  this  idea 
of  converting  the  Jews  of  the  East  Side  to  Chris- 
tianity was  all  his  own  idea — all  his  own  undertak- 
ing, without  pay,  without  hope  of  reward.  He 
knew  German  well,  and  a  little  Russian,  and  it  had 
not  taken  him  long  to  acquire  sufficient  proficiency 
in  the  jargon  to  make  himself  clearly  understood. 
Then  began  this  "  open-air  meeting,"  the  sudden 
[196] 


I 


UNCONVERTED 

outburst  of  derisive  cries  and  hooting  before  he  had 
uttered  a  dozen  words  of  the  solemn  exhortation 
that  he  had  so  carefully  planned,  then  the  rush  and 
the  stone  that  had  cut  his  cheek,  and — he  was  only 
dimly  conscious  of  this — the  sudden  interference 
of  the  tall  man.  He  was  glad  to  accompany  his 
rescuer — glad  to  do  anything  that  would  afford  a 
moment's  quiet  rest.  The  Reverend  Gillespie 
wanted  to  think  the  situation  over. 

The  tall  man  led  him  into  a  tenement  close  by, 
through  the  hall,  and  across  a  filthy  court-yard 
into  a  rear  tenement,  and  then  up  four  foul,  weary 
flights  of  stairs.  He  opened  a  door,  and  the  clergy- 
man found  himself  in  a  small  dark  room  that 
seemed,  from  its  furnishings,  as  well  as  from  its 
odours,  to  serve  the  purpose  of  sitting-,  sleeping-, 
dining-room,  and  kitchen.  In  one  corner  stood  a 
couch,  upon  which  lay  an  old  man,  apparently 
asleep.  His  long,  grey  beard  rose  and  fell  upon 
the  coverlet  with  his  regular  breathing;  but  his 
cheeks  were  sunken,  and  his  hands,  that  clutched 
the  edge  of  the  coverlet,  were  thin  and  wasted. 

"  Rest  yourself,"  said  the  tall  man  to  the  clergy- 
man.   "  You  are  worn  out." 
[197] 


CHILDREN  OF  MEN 
The  clergyman  seated  himself  and  drew  a  long 
breath  of  relief.  He  was  really  tired,  and  sitting 
down  acted  like  a  tonic.  He  began  to  thank  his 
rescuer.  It  was  the  first  word  he  had  spoken,  and 
his  voice  seemed  to  arouse  a  sudden  fire  in  the  eyes 
of  his  rescuer. 

"  Listen !  "  he  cried,  leaning  forward,  and  point- 
ing a  long,  gaunt  finger  at  the  clergyman.  "  Lis- 
ten to  me.  I  have  brought  you  here  because  I  think 
you  are  an  honest  man.  You  are  like  a  man  who 
walks  in  the  midst  of  light  with  his  eyes  shut  and 
declares  there  is  no  light.  You  have  come  here  to 
preach  to  Jews,  to  beseech  them  to  forsake  the 
teachings  of  the  Prophets  and  to  believe  that  the 
Messiah  has  come.  But  to  preach  to  Jews  you  must 
first  find  your  Jews.  You  were  not  speaking  to 
Jews.  It  was  not  a  Jew  who  threw  that  stone  at 
you.  It  is  true  the  Talmud  says,  '  An  Israelite, 
even  when  he  sins  and  abandons  the  faith,  is  still  an 
Israelite.'  But  you  have  not  come  to  convert  the 
sinners  against  Israel.  You  have  come  to  convert 
Jews.  And  I  have  brought  you  here  to  show  you  a 
Jew. 

"  That  old  man  whom  you  see  there — no,  he  is 

[198] 


UNCONVERTED 
not  sleeping.  He  is  dying.  You  are  shocked? 
No,  he  has  no  disease.  Medical  skill  can  do  nothing 
for  him.  He  is  an  old  man,  tired  of  the  struggle 
of  life,  worn  out,  wasting  away.  Oh,  he  will  open 
his  eyes  again,  and  he  will  eat  food,  too,  but  there 
is  no  hope.    In  a  few  days  he  will  be  no  more.  | 

"  He  is  a  Jew.  We  came  from  Russia  together, 
he  and  I,  and  we  struggled  together,  side  by  side, 
for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century.  It  did  not  take 
me  long  to  forget  many  of  the  things  the  rabbis 
had  taught  me,  and  to  become  impatient  of  the 
restraints  of  religion.  But  he  remained  steadfast, 
oh,  so  steadfast!  His  religion  was  the  breath  of^ 
life  to  him ;  he  could  no  more  depart  from  it  than 
he  could  accustom  himself  to  live  without  breath- 1 
ing.  It  was  a  bitter  struggle,  year  after  year, 
slaving  from  break  of  day  until  dark,  with  nothing 
to  save,  no  headway,  no  future,  no  hope.  I  often 
became  despondent,  but  he  was  always  cheerful. 
He  had  the  true  faith  to  sustain  him ;  a  smile,  a  * 
cheerful  word,  and  always  some  apt  quotation 
from  the  Talmud  to  dispel  my  despondent  mood.  / 

"  He  argued  with  me,  he  pleaded  with  me,  he 

read  to  me  the  words  of  the  law,  and  the  interpre- 
[199] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

tations  of  the  learned  rabbis,  day  after  day,  month 
after  month,  year  after  year — always  so  kind,  so 
gentle,  so  patient,  so  loving.  And  all  the  while  we 
struggled  for  our  daily  living  together  and  suf- 
fered and  hungered,  and  many  times  were  sub- 
jected to  insult  and  even  injury.  And  he  would 
always  repeat  from  the  Talmud,  '  Man  should  ac- 
custom himself  to  say  of  everything  that  God  does 
that  it  is  for  the  best.' 

"  Then  Fortune  smiled  upon  him.  An  unex- 
pected piece  of  luck,  a  bold  enterprise,  a  few  quick, 
profitable  ventures,  and  he  became  independent. 
He  made  me  share  his  good  fortune.  We  started 
one  of  those  little  banking  houses  on  the  East  Side, 
and  so  great  was  the  confidence  that  all  who  knew 
him  possessed  in  him,  that  in  less  than  a  year  we 
were  a  well-known,  reliable  establishment,  with 
prospects  that  no  outsider  would  ever  have  dreamed 
of.  Through  all  the  days  of  prosperity  he  re- 
mained a  devout  Jew.  Not  a  feast  passed  unob- 
served. Not  a  ceremony  went  unperformed.  Not 
an  act  of  devotion,  of  kindness,  or  of  charity 
prescribed  by  the   Talmud   was   omitted   by   my 

friend. 

[200] 


UNCONVERTED 

*'  Then  came  the  black  day — the  great,  panic  of 
six  years  ago — do  you  remember  it?  It  came  sud- 
denly, on  a  Friday  afternoon,  like  a  huge  storm- 
cloud,  threatening  to  burst  the  next  morning. 

"  They  came  to  him — all  his  customers — ^in 
swarms,  to  ask  him  if  he  would  keep  his  banking 
place  open  the  next  day.  '  No ! '  he  said.  ''  To- 
morrow is  the  Sabbath ! '  '  You  will  be  ruined ! ' 
they  cried.  *  We  will  be  ruined ! '  '  Friends,'  he 
said,  in  his  quiet  way,  '  I  have  enough  money  laid 
aside  to  guard  you  against  ruin,  even  if  all  my  es- 
tablishment be  wiped  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
But  to-morrow  is  the  Sabbath.  I  have  observed  the 
Sabbath  for  nearly  sixty  years.  I  must  not  fail 
to-morrow.' 

"  And  when  the  morrow  came  the  bank  failed, 
and  they  brought  the  news  to  him  in  the  syna- 
gogue. But  he  gave  no  heed  to  them;  he  was 
listening  to  the  reading  of  the  law.  They  came 
to  tell  him  that  banks  were  crashing  everywhere, 
that  the  bottom  had  fallen  out  of  the  world  of  busi- 
ness and  finance.  But  he  was  listening  to  the  words 
that  were  spoken  by  Moses  on  Sinai. 

"  And,"  the  narrator's  eyes  filled,  and  the  tears 

[201] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

began  to  roll  down  his  cheeks,  "  on  the  Monda}'^ 
that  followed  he  gave,  to  every  man  and  to  every 
woman  and  to  every  child  that  had  trusted  him, 
every  penny  that  he  had  saved,  and  he  made  me  give 
every  penny  that  I  had  saved.  And  when  all  was 
gone,  and  the  last  creditor  had  gone  away,  paid 
in  full,  he  turned  to  me  and  said,  '  Man  should  ac- 
custom himself  to  say  of  everjrthing  that  God  does 
that  it  is  for  the  best ! ' 

"  And  the  next  day — yes,  the  very  next  day — ^we 
applied  for  work  in  a  sweater's  shop,  and  we  have 
been  working  there  ever  since. 

"  We  were  too  old  to  begin  daring  ventures  over 
again.  I  would  have  clung  to  the  money  we  had 
saved,  but  he — ^he  was  so  good,  so  honest,  that  the 
very  thought  of  it  filled  me  with  shame.  And  now 
he  is  worn  out. 

"  In  a  few  days  he  will  die,  and  I  will  be  left  to 
fight  on  alone. 

"  But,  oh,  my  friend,  there,  lying  on  that  couch, 
you  see  a  Jew ! 

"Would  you  convert  him?  What  would  you 
have  him  believe?  To  what  would  you  change  his 
faith?  Ah,  you  will  say  there  are  not  many  like 
[302] 


UNCONVERTED 

him.  No!  Would  to  God  there  were!  It  would 
be  a  happier  world. 

"  But  it  was  faith  in  Judaism  that  made  him 
what  he  was.  If  I — if  all  Jews  could  only  believe 
in  the  religion  of  their  fathers  as  he  believed — 
what  an  example  to  mankind  Israel  would  be ! 

"  My  friend,  I  thank  you.    You  have  come  with 

me — you  have  listened  to  my  story.     I  must  at- 

-  tend  to  my  friend.    May  the  peace  of  God  be  with 


you 


I  »> 


The  Reverend  Thomas  Gillespie  (although,  as  I 
said,  it  may  have  been  William)  bowed,  and,  with- 
out a  word,  walked  slowly  out  of  the  room.  His 
lips  trembled  slightly. 

The  *'  second  outdoor  meeting  of  the  Reverend 
Gillespie's  Mission  to  the  East  Side  Jews "  has 
never  taken  place. 


[303] 


WITHOUT    FEAR    OF    GOD 


WITHOUT    FEAR    OF   GOD 

The  thread  on  which  the  good  qualities  of  human 
beings  are  strung  like  pearls,  is  the  fear  of  God. 
When  the  fastenings  of  this  fear  are  unloosed 
the  pearls  roll  in  all  directions  and  are  lost,  one 
by  one. 

— The  Book  of  Morals. 

Be  pleased  to  remember  that  this  tale  points  no 
moral,  that  there  is  absolutely  nothing  to  be  de- 
duced from  it,  and  that  in  narrating  it  I  am  but 
repeating  a  curious  incident  that  belongs  to  the 
East  Side.  It  is  a  strange  place,  this  East  Side, 
with  its  heterogeneous  elements,  its  babble  of  jar- 
gons. Its  noise  and  its  silence,  its  impenetrable 
mystery,  its  virtues,  its  romance,  and  its  poverty — 
above  all,  its  poverty!  Some  day  I  shall  tell  you 
something  about  the  poverty  of  the  East  Side  that 
will  tax  your  credulity. 

•  •  •  •  • 

There  lived  on  the  East  Side  once  a  man  who  had 
no  fear  of  God.    His  name  was  Shatzkin,  and  there 

[207] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

had  been  a  time  when  he  was  a  learned  man,  skilled 
in  the  interpretation  of  Talmudic  lore,  fair  to  look 
upon  and  strong. 

Like  many  another  outcast  he  had  come  with  his 
stor}^  and  his  mystery  out  of  the  "  poisonous  East,"  j 
and  there  was  no  tie  between  him  and  his  neigh- 
bours save  the  tie  of  Judaism.  It  is  a  wonderful 
bond  between  men,  this  tie  of  Judaisjn,  a  bond 
of  steel  that  it  has  taken  four  thousand  years  of 
suffering  and  death  to  forge,  and  its  ends  are  fas- 
tened to  men's  hearts  by  rivets  that  are  stronger 
than  adamant,  and  the  rabbis  call  these  rivets 
"  The  fear  of  God." 

The  heat  of  summer  came  on.  You  who  swelter 
in  your  parlour  these  sultry  days — do  you  know 
what  the  heat  of  summer  means  to  two  families 
chained  by  poverty  within  a  solitary  room  in  a 
Ghetto  tenement,  where  there  is  neither  light  nor 
air,  where  the  pores  of  the  walls  perspire,  where  the 
stench  of  decay  is  ever  present,  where  there  is 
nothing  but  heat,  heat,  heat  ?  You  who  have  read 
with  horror  the  tale  of  the  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta 
— have  you  seen  a  child  lie  upon  a  bare  floor, 
gasping,  and  gasping  and  gasping  for  breath 
[208] 


I 


WITHOUT   FEAR   OF    GOD 

amid  the  roomful  of  silent  people  who  are  stitch- 
ing for  bread?  I  would  give  a  year  of  my  life  to 
wipe  out  a  certain  memory  that  is  awakened  each 
time  I  hear  a  child  cry — it  was  terrible. 

But  I  was  telling  you  the  story  of  Shatzkin. 

The  heat  of  summer  came  on,  and  his  youngest- 
born  died  in  his  arms  for  lack  of  nourishment.  And 
while  his  wife  sat  wringing  her  hands  and  the  other 
children  were  crying,  Shatzkin  laid  the  lifeless 
body  upon  the  bare  floor,  and,  donning  his  praying 
cap,  raised  his  voice  and  chanted: 

"  Great  is  my  affliction,  O  God  of  Israel,  but 
Thou  knowest  best !  " 

And  it  grew  hotter,  and  the  other  children  suc- 
cumbed. 

"You  had  better  send  them  to  the  country," 
said  the  doctor,  and,  seeing  Shatzkin  staring  at 
him  dumbly,  "  Don't  you  understand  what  I 
mean  ? "  he  asked.  Shatzkin  nodded.  He  un- 
derstood full  well  and — and  that  night  another 
died,  and  Shatzkin  bowed  his  head  and  cried: 

"  Great  is  my  affliction,  O  God  of  Israel,  but 
Thou  knowest  best !  " 

Within  a  week  the  Shatzkins  were  childless — ^it 
[  209  ] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

was  a  terrible  summer — and  when  the  congregation 
B'nai  Sholom  assembled  upon  the  following  Sab- 
bath and  the  rabbi  spoke  words  of  comfort,  Shatz- 
kin,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  mur- 
mured : 

"  My  sorrow  is  nigh  unbearable,  O  God  of  Is- 
rael, but  Thou  knowest  best !  " 

And  now  the  heat  grew  greater,  and  the  sweat- 
shops, with  all  their  people,  were  as  silent  as  the 
grave.  The  men  cut  the  cloth  and  ironed  it,  and 
the  women  stitched,  stitched,  stitched,  with  never 
a  sound,  and  there  was  no  weeping,  for  their  mis- 
ery was  beyond  the  healing  power  of  tears. 

Shatzkin's  wife  fell  to  the  floor  exhausted,  and 
they  carried  her  to  her  room  above,  and  sent  for  a 
doctor. 

"  The  sea  air  would  do  her  good,"  said  the  doc- 
tor. 

"The  sea  air,"  repeated  Shatzkin,  stupidly. 
"  The  sea  air." 

"  Keep  her  as  cool  as  you  can.  I  will  call  again 
in  the  morning." 

"The   sea   air,"   was   all   that   Shatzkin  said. 

"  The  sea  air." 

[210] 


p 


WITHOUT   FEAB    OF    GOD 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  the  woman  cried, 
"  Shatzkin !   Shatzkin !  " 

He  looked  down,  for  her  head  lay  upon  his  lap. 

"  Shatzkin !  "  She  was  smiling  feebly.  "  The 
baby — Aaron — Esther — dear  Shatzkin " 


The  congregation  of  B'nai  Sholom  had  as- 
sembled for  Sabbath  eve  worship.  The  rabbi  was 
in  the  midst  of  the  service. 

"  Blessed  be  God  on  high ! "  he  read  from  the 
book.  "  Blessed  be  the  Lord  of  Israel,  who  holds 
the  world  in  the  palm  of  His  hand.  For  He  is  a 
righteous  God " 

"  Ho !  ho ! "  shouted  a  derisive  voice.  The 
startled  worshippers  hastily  turned  their  heads. 
They  beheld  a  gaunt  figure  that  had  risen  in  the 
rear  of  the  room,  and  seemed  to  be  shaking  with 
laughter.  It  was  Shatzkin,  but  so  pale  and  worn 
that  few  recognised  him. 

"  Who  are  you  that  disturb  this  holy  service?  '* 

cried  the  rabbi.     "  Have  you  no  fear  of  God  in 

your  heart  ?  " 

The  man  ceased  laughing  and  stared  the  rabbi 
[211] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

in  the  eyes.  "  No,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  I  have  no 
fear  of  God." 

A  terrible  hush  had  fallen  upon  the  assemblage, 
and  the  man,  looking  vacantly  from  one  to  another 
of  the  faces  that  were  turned  to  him,  said,  in  a  hol- 
low voice: 

"  I  am  Shatzkin.  Does  no  one  remember  Shatz- 
kin?  I  sat  here  only  last  week,"  and,  slowly,  "  my 
— wife — went — ^to — the — seashore !  " 

The  rabbi's  face  softened. 

"  Good,  brother  Shatzkin,"  his  voice  was  trem- 
bling.    "  God  has  tried " 

"  You  lie !  "  cried  Shatzkin,  fiercely.  "  Do  not 
speak  to  me  of  God !  I  have  no  fear  of  Him !  He 
killed  my  youngest-born,  and  I  prayed  to  Him — 
on  my  knees  I  prayed  and  cried,  '  Thou  knowest 
best ! '  And  He  killed  the  others — all  the  others, 
and  I  blessed  Him  and  on  my  knees  I  prayed, '  Thou 
knowest  best ! '  And  He  killed  my  wife — my  dar- 
ling wife — in  my  arms  He  killed  her.  And  I  am 
alone — alone — alone,  and  I  fear  no  God !  Curse — 
curse — curse !  Ha !  ha !  ha !  ho !  ho !  ho !  Why 
should  I  fear  God.?  " 

And  throwing  a  prayer-book  to  the  floor  he 
[212] 


I 


WITHOUT   FEAR    OF    GOD 

trampled  it  under  foot,  and  rushed  out  into  the 
street. 

•  •  •  •  • 

For  many  years  there  worked  in  one  of  the  sweat- 
shops on  the  East  Side  a  shrivelled  little  man, 
with  keen  blue  eyes,  who  was  always  laughing. 
From  sunrise  until  midnight  he  toiled,  sometimes 
humming  an  old  melody,  but  always  with  a  smile 
upon  his  lips.  The  other  workers  laughed  and 
chatted  merrily  In  the  winter  time,  and  became 
grave  and  silent  in  the  summer,  but  rarely  did  they 
pay  attention  to  the  old  man  who  seemed  always 
happy.  Strangers  that  visited  the  place  were  in- 
variably attracted  by  the  cheerful  aspect  oJ^  the 
man,  but  when  they  spoke  to  him  he  would  smile 
and  answer: 

"  I  must  earn  money  to  send  my  wife  to  the  sea 
air!" 

And  if  they  asked,  "  Who  is  this  man.?  "  they 
would  be  told  in  a  whisper  of  awe : 

"  He  has  no  fear  of  God !  " 

And  then  a  significant  shake  of  the  head. 

The  heat  of  summer  is  here  again.      Shatzkin 
[213] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

has  been  dead  a  long  time,  and  the  story  is  almost 
forgotten.     But  in  the  Ghetto  each  day  his  cry  is 
repeated,  and  through  the  heat  and  the  foul  air/ 
there  arises  from  a  thousand  hearts  the  tearless 
murmur : 

"  Great  is  my  affliction,  O  God  of  Israrel,  but 
Thou  knowest  best!" 


[214] 


THE    SUN    OF    WISDOM 


THE    SUN    OF   WISDOM 

"And  therefore,"  concluded  Salvin,  stroking  his 
long,  grey  beard,  "  we  are  forced  to  accept  the 
belief  that  the  object  of  life  is  toil.  We  are  the 
advance  guard  cutting  out^tfie  road  down  which 
the  next  generation  will  travel,  who,  in  turn,  will 
carry  the  road  further  along.  Our  work  done — 
our  usefulness  ends.  We  have  accomplished  our 
mission,  and  nothing  remains  but  to  make  way  for 
our  successors." 

Young  Levine  smiled,  and  rose  to  go. 

"  You  are  wrong,  my  pessimistic  brother,"  he 
said,  fondly  laying  his  hand  upon  the  old  man's 
shoulder.  "  You  are  wrong.  Some  day  the  sun 
of  wisdom  may  shine  upon  you  and  you  will  learn 
the  truth." 

Salvin  had  been  the  friend  of  Levine's  father, 
and,  despite  the  inequality  of  their  ages,  a  firm 
friendship  existed  between  him  and  the  son.  He 
now  blew  a  smoke  ring  toward  the  ceiling,  and  with 
a  smile  of  amusement  gazed  at  the  young  man. 
[217] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

"  And  what,  O  Solomon,"  he  asked,  "  may  the 
sun  of  wisdom  have  taught  you?  " 

Levine's  face  lit  up. 

"  The  object  of  Hfe,"  he  said,  speaking  swiftly 
and  earnestly,  "  is  love^__  It  begins  with  love ;  it 
ends  with  love.  Without  love  life  has  no  object. 
It  is,  then,  mere  aimless,  wondering,  puzzling  ex- 
istence during  which  the  mind — ^like  yours — strug- 
gles vainly  to  solve  the  riddle  of  why  and  where- 
fore. But  those  who  have  once  had  the  truth 
pointed  out  to  them  are  never  in  doubt.  To  them 
love  explains  all.  Without  love  you  cannot  know 
life." 

Salvin  smiled,  and  then,  as  the  young  man  de- 
parted, his  face  grew  serious.  He  sat  for  a  long 
time  plunged  in  deepest  thought.  Strange  mem- 
ories must  have  crowded  upon  him,  for  his  eyes 
softened,  and  the  lines  of  his  face  relaxed  their 
tension. 

But  at  the  end  of  it  he  only  sighed  and  shook 
his  head  gently  and  muttered,  "  It  is  toil !  Not 
love!     Toil!" 

Levine,  meanwhile,  was  walking  back  to  his  work 
He  was  a  compositor  in  the  printing-shop  of  the 
[218] 


THE    SUN     OF    WISDOM 

Jewish  Workingman,  and  it  had  been  his  custom, 
for  years,  to  meet  his  friend  Salvin  at  the  noon- 
day meal  in  Weiss's  cafe,  where  they  discussed  those 
problems  of  life  that  perplex  the  minds  of  think- 
ing men.  One  problem,  Levine  felt,  had  been  solved 
— had  been  finally  and  definitely  made  clear.  And 
the  magic  had  all  been  worked  by  Miriam's  eyes — 
coal-black  eyes  that  now  seemed  the  alpha  and 
omega  of  all  his  existence.  For  Levine,  the  ob- 
ject of  Hfe  was  Miriam.  The  sun  rose  in  order 
that  he  might  look  upon  her.  It  set  in  order  that 
night  might  bring  her  sweet  repose. 

The  seasons — what  were  they  but  a  varying 
background  against  which  the  panorama  of  love 
could  unfold  itself.''  He  toiled — for  Miriam.  He 
lived — for  Miriam.  He  thought — always  of 
Miriam.  Could  there  be  a  simpler  explanation  of 
the  mysteries  of  existence?  Poor  old  Salvin! 
Poor,  blind  pessimist!  After  so  much  pondering 
to  achieve  nothing  better  than  that  hopeless  creed! 
Toil.''  Yes,  but  only  as  a  step  toward  love — as  a 
means  toward  the  higher  end.  If  man  were  created 
for   toil,   then   man   were   doomed   to   everlasting 

animal    existence.      Whereas   love    raised   him    to 
[319] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

higher  planes,  transformed  him  into  a  higher,  riobler 
being.    Could  life  desire  a  sublimer  object? 

Levine  trod  on  air.  In  his  workshop  the  walls, 
the  lights,  the  papers — all  that  surrounded  him — 
sang  to  him  of  love.  The  presses  chanted  the 
melody  of  Miriam's  eyes  all  the  livelong  day.  The 
very  stones  in  the  street  seemed  to  him  to  sing  it: 
"She  is  fair!  She  is  fair!  She  is  fair!"  and 
"  Love  is  all !    Love  is  all !    Love  is  all !  " 

One  day  they  were  married.  Salvin  was  there, 
with  a  hearty  clasp  of  the  hand  for  his  friend,  and 
a  kiss  and  a  blessing  for  the  bride.  And  laugh- 
ingly Levine  whispered  into  his  ear,  "  It  is  love !  " 
But  Salvin  was  stubborn.  He  smiled  and  shook  his 
head  playfully.  But  what  he  whispered  in  return 
was,  "  It  is  toil !  " 

They  were  married,  and  the  universe  joined  with 
them  in  their  paean  of  love — love  that,  like  the 
wind,  "  bloweth  where  it  listeth,  and  thou  hearest 
the  sound  thereof,  but  canst  not  tell  whence  it 
cometh  and  whither  it  goeth." 

Do  you  know  that  kind  of  woman  whose  tempera- 
[220] 


^^BF  THE    SUN    OF   WISDOM 

^B      ment  is  like  the  smiling  sunshine?    Miriam  was  one 
^B      of  these.     A  light,  happy  heart — a  nature  that 
^B       gloried    in   the   joy   of   existence — ever   ready   to 
sing,  to  smile,  to  frolic — sympathetic  to  all  woe, 

•  yet  realising  sorrow  only  as  an  external  affliction, 
whose  sting  she  could  see,  but  had  never  felt — the 
soul  of  merriment  was  Miriam.  Her  lot  in  life 
was  an  humble  one ;  her  task  had  been  severe ;  but 
through  it  all  that  sunshiny  nature  had  served  as 
a  shield  to  ward  off  the  blows  of  life.  Once — ^there 
was  a  man.  For  a  few  hours  Miriam's  brow  had 
puckered  in  deep  thought.  But  the  man  had  been 
foolish  enough  to  ask  for  a  capitulation — for  un- 
conditional surrender — ere  the  battle  had  been  half 
fought,  and  Miriam  had  shaken  her  head  and  had 
passed  him  by.  Then  Levine  had  come.  There 
was  a  delicate,  poetic  strain  in  his  nature  that  had 
immediately  appealed  to  her,  and  his  soft  words 
fell  upon  willing  ears.  He  had  wooed  her  gently, 
tenderly,  caressingly — in  marked  contrast  to  the 
tempestuous  courtship  that  had  failed — and  he  had 
won.  It  "  bloweth  where  it  listeth,  and  thou  hear- 
est  the  sound  thereof,  but  canst  not  tell  whence  it 

cometh  and  whither  it  goeth !  " 
[221] 


CHILDREN    OF   MEN 

Love's  eyes  are  keen,  and  Levine  was  quick  to 
see  the  change  that  slowly  came  over  his  wife.  He 
could  not  have  explained  it ;  there  was  no  name  for 
it;  it  baffled  analysis.  The  first  time  he  spoke  to 
her  about  it  she  laughed  and  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  saying,  "  Can't  you  see  that  I  am  grow- 
ing older?  You  cannot  expect  your  wife  to  re- 
main a  silly,  giggling  girl  all  her  life." 

The  second  time  he  spoke  to  her  about  it  she 
gave  the  same  answer.  She  did  not  embrace  him, 
however.  And  when  she  had  answered  him  her 
face  became  thoughtful.  He  spoke  to  her  about  it 
a  third  time.  She  looked  at  him  a  long  time  be- 
fore speaking.    Then  she  said,  slowly: 

"  Yes.  I  feel  like  a  different  woman.  But  I 
don't  understand  it."  He  did  not  offer  to  kiss  her 
that  night,  as  was  his  custom,  but  waited  for  her 
to  make  the  first  advance.  She  did  not  seem  to 
notice  the  omission. 

He  never  spoke  to  her  about  the  matter  again. 
He  never  kissed  her  again. 

The  marvels  of  a  woman's  mind,  the  leaps  and 
bounds  of  the  emotions,  the  gamut  of  passion  upon 
which  her  fancy  plays  and  lingers — all  these  are 
[222] 


THE    SUN     OF    WISDOM 

the  despair  of  psychology.  Yet  their  manifesta- 
tion is  sufficiently  clear.  How  it  came  or  whence 
it  came,  or  why  it  came,  even  Miriam  herself 
could  not  tell.  But  as  a  flash  of  lightning  on  an 
inky  night  reveals  with  vivid  clearness  what  the 
darkness  conceals,  so  the  sudden  revelation  that  she 
adored  the  man  whom  she  had  rejected  lit  up,  for 
a  brief  moment,  the  gloom  that  had  fallen  upon  her 
heart  and  laid  bare  the  terrible  dreary  prospect  of 
her  life.  It  came  like  a  thunderbolt.  She  loved 
him.  She  had  always  loved  him.  He  was  the  lord 
and  master  whom  her  heart  craved.  The  fire  had 
been  smouldering  in  her  heart.  Now  it  leaped  into 
devouring  flame.  He  loved  her!  He  had  fallen 
upon  his  knees  and  had  tried  to  drag  her  toward 
him.  He  had  sworn  that  his  life  would  be  wretched 
without  her.  And  now  that  she  was  married  he 
had  thrown  jall  J:he  energies  of  his  heart  and  soul 
into  incessant  toil  in  order  that  he  might  forget 
her^  Married.?  She,  the  wife  of  Levine.?  A  cry 
of  despair  broke  from  her  lips. 

Ah,  yes.  The  lightning  flash  had  passed.  But 
she  remembered  what  its  brightness  had  revealed. 
She  knew  now! 

[223] 


CHILDREN  OF  MEN 
For  a  long  time — for  many  weeks — she  often 
felt  an  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  scream  aloud, 
so  that  her  husband — so  that  all  the  world  might 
hear:  "  I  love  him !  Him  only !  No  one  but  him." 
But  the  heart  learns  to  bear  even  agony  in  silence. 
Miriam  settled  down  into  the  monotonous  groove 
that  fate  had  marked  out  for  her.  The  revelation 
that  had  come  to  her  so  suddenly  developed  into  a 
wall  that  rose  between  her  and  her  husband.  An 
invisible  wall,  yet  each  felt  its  presence,  and  after 
many  ineffectual  attempts  to  surmount  this  barrier, 
to  woo  and  win  her  heart  anew,  Levine  abandoned 
the  effort  and  yielded  to  despair.  She  never  told 
him,  and  he  never  knew — never  even  suspected.. 
But  after  that  they  lived  in  different  worlds — each 
equally  wretched.  For  there  is  only  one  other 
Hngering  misery  on  earth  that  can  compare  with 
the  lot  of  a  woman  who  is  married  to  one  man  with 
her  heart  and  soul  bound  up  in  another.  It  is  the 
lot  of  her  husband. 

For    Miriam   there    was    no    consolation.      Her 
secret    was   buried   in   her   inmost   soul;   she   was 
doomed  to  live  out  her  life  brooding  over  it.    Dur- 
ing the  day  she  often  cried.     When  her  husband 
[224] 


THE    SUN    OF   WISDOM 

came  home  she  met  him  with  a  calm  face — often 
with  a  smile — and  then  they  would  sit  and  talk 
over  trivial  matters  the  while  that  her  agony  was 
eating  into  her  heart. 

And  Levine — the  torments  that  he  endured  were 
beyond  all  description!  Of  a  sensitive  tempera- 
ment, yet  endowed  with  a  clear,  critical,  philosophic 
intellect,  he  sought  for  an  explanation  and  a  remedy 
in  a  scrutiny  of  every  incident  of  their  married 
life,  in  self-analysis,  in  the  keenest  introspection, 
and  found  nothing  but  that  insurmountable  wall. 
Nothing  seemed  credible  or  tangible  save  that  dull 
gnawing  pain  in  his  heart.  Once  or  twice  the 
thought  of  self-destruction  entered  his  head.  Why 
he  thrust  it  aside  he  could  not  say.  He  was  not  a 
coward.  The  prospect  of  fighting  his  way 
through  life  with  that  burden  of  misery  upon  his 
soul  possessed  infinitely  more  terrors  for  him  than 
the  thought  of  suicide.  Nor  did  he  pursue  the 
suggestion  sufficiently  to  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  it  was  unworthy.  It  was  an  alien 
thought,  foreign  to  his  nature,  and  could  find 
no  lodgment.  That  was  all.  He  lived  on  and 
suffered. 

[225] 


CHILDREN    OF   MEN 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  Levine,  the  poet?     He' 

is  a  compositor  in  the  printing-shop  of  the  Jewish] 

WorJcingman  by  day — ^he  writes  poetry,  and,  occa-| 

sionally,  short  prose  articles  at  night.     He  is  not 

a  genius.    He  is  not  a  born  singer.     But  his  work 

is  strong  in  its  sincerity,  and  through  it  all  runs 

a  strain — that  world-old   strain  of  pleading — of 

weakness  pleading  for  strength,  of  the  oppressed 

pleading  for  justice.     He  is  not  a  great  poet,  but 

among  the  readers   of  the  Jewish   Workingman, 

and  among  the  loiterers  in  the  East  Side  cafes,  he 

is  looked  upon  as  a  "  friend  of  the  masses."     And 

what  they  all  marvel  at  is  his  prodigious  industry. 

A  day's  work  in  the  composing-room  of  the  Jewish 

Workingman  is  a  task  calculated  to  sap  a  man's 

vitality  to  its  last  drop.    Yet,  this  task  completed, 

Levine  throws  himself  with  feverish  activity  into 

the  composition  of  verse,  and  writes,  and  writes, 

and  writes,  until  the  lamp  burns  low.     Sometimes, 

when  he  tires,  he  pauses  to  listen  to  the  gentle 

breathing  of  his  wife,  who  sleeps  in  the  next  room. 

It  acts  like  a  spur  upon  him ;  with  renewed  energy 

he  plunges  into  his  work. 

The   poem    which    the   readers    of   the    Jewish 
[226] 


THE    SUN     OF    WISDOM 

Workingman  like  best  of  all  Levine's  writings  is 
"  Phantoms."  It  ends — roughly  translated  from 
the  Yiddish — like  this : 

And  when  the  deepening  gloom  of  night  descends 
Upon  the  perilous  path  and  towering  heights, 
And  wild  storm  phantoms  crowd  each  rocky  pass — 
Love  sinks  exhausted,  but  grim  Toil  climbs  onl 


[327] 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    ISRAEL 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    ISRAEL 

There  was  a  young  man  with  a  Christian  heart 
and  blue  eyes — eyes  that  made  you  look  at  him 
again  and  smile  at  his  earnestness — who  went 
among  the  lowly  Jews  of  the  East  Side  to  convert 
them  to  the  faith  of  the  Messiah  whom  they  dis- 
owned. Those  blue  eyes  fell,  one  day,  upon  a  head 
of  hair  that  gleamed  like  gold,  fiery,  red  hair, 
silken  and  carelessly  tangled,  and  shining  in  the 
sunlight.  Then  the  head  turned  and  the  young 
man  beheld  the  face  of  Bertha,  daughter  of  Tamor, 
the  rabbi.  And  Bertha  opened  her  eyes,  which 
were  brown,  and  gazed  curiously  at  this  young 
man  who  seemed  out  of  place  in  the  Ghetto,  and 
smiled  and  turned  away. 

A  year  went  by  and  the  Jews  still  disowned  the 
Messiah,  but  a  great  change  had  come  over  this 
young  man.  In  the  vague  future  he  still  hoped  to 
carry  out  his  daring  scheme,  but  now  all  his  heart 
and  all  his  soul  and  all  his  hopes  of  earthly  happi- 
[231] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

ness  were  centred  upon  Bertha,  daughter  of  Tamor, 
the  rabbi. 

In  the  beginning  she  had  been  amused  at  him, 
but  his  persistence  and  his  earnestness  won  their 
reward,  as  those  qualities  always  will,  and  when 
this  first  year  was  at  an  end  it  came  to  pass  that 
this  Jewish  maiden  wept,  as  a  loving  woman  will 
weep,  for  sheer  joy  of  being  loved;  she  a  rabbi's 
daughter,  bred  in  the  traditions  of  a  jealous  faith, 
he  a  Christian  lad. 

She  had  kept  the  secret  of  her  growing  love 
locked  in  her  heart,  but  now  it  became  a  burden 
too  heavy  to  be  borne,  and  one  night — it  was 
shortly  before  the  fast  of  Yom  Kippur — she 
poured  out  her  confession  into  her  father's  ear. 
She  told  it  in  whispers,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
father's  long  beard,  and  with  her  arms  around  his 
neck.  When  the  full  meaning  of  the  revelation 
dawned  upon  him,  the  Rabbi  Tamor,  ashen  pale, 
sprang  from  his  feet  and  thrust  her  from  him. 

"  A  Christian ! "  he  cried.  "  My  daughter 
marry  a  Christian !  " 

He  was  an  old  man — so  old  and  feeble  that  in  a 
few  days  the  synagogue  had  planned  to  retire  him 

[233] 


A   DAUGHTER   OF    ISRAEL 

and  install  a  younger  rabbi  in  his  place.  But  now 
fury  gave  him  strength.  His  whole  frame  trem- 
bled, but  his  eyes  were  flashing  fire,  and  he  had 
raised  his  arm  as  if  he  were  about  to  strike  his 
daughter  to  the  floor.  But  she  did  not  move. 
Her  eyes  were  raised  to  his,  tearfully  but  undis- 
mayed. 

"  Do  not  strike  me,  father,"  she  said.  *'  I  can- 
not help  it.  I  love  him.  I  have  promised  to 
marry  him.    Will  you  not  give  me  your  blessing  ?  " 

"  Blessings  ? "  cried  the  infuriated  old  man. 
"  My  curses  upon  you  if  you  take  so  foul  a  step ! 
Your  mother  would  rise  from  her  grave  if  you  mar- 
ried a  Christian !  How  dare  you  tell  such  a  thing 
to  me — ^to  me,  who  have  devoted  so  many  years  to 
bringing  you  up  in  the  faith  to  which  I  have  de- 
voted my  life?  Is  there  no  son  of  Israel  good 
enough  for  you.?  Must  you  bring  this  horrible 
calamity  upon  me  in  my  old  age?  Would  you 
have  me  read  you  out  of  the  congregation?  If  it 
were  the  last  act  of  my  rabbinate — aye,  if  it  were 
the  last  act  of  my  life,  I  would  read  out  aloud,  so 
that  all  the  world  would  know  my  shame,  the  ban 
of  excommunication  that  the  synagogue  would 
[233] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

impose  upon  you!     Have  I  brought  you  up  for 
this?  " 

But  Bertha  had  swooned,  and  his  rage  fell  upon 
ears  that  did  not  hear. 

The  cup  of  bitterness  was  full.  Rabbi  Tamor 
knew  his  daughter,  knew  the  full  strength  of  her 
nature,  the  steadfastness  of  her  purpose.  He  had 
pleaded,  expostulated,  argued,  and  threatened,  but 
all  in  vain.  And  to  add  to  his  misery  he  saw  in 
all  his  daughter's  passionate  devotion  to  her  lover 
something  that  reminded  him  more  and  more  vividly 
of  the  wife  whom  he  had  courted  and  loved  and 
cherished  until  death  took  her  from  him.  Many 
years  had  gone  by,  but  whenever  his  memory  grew 
dim,  and  her  features  began  to  grow  indistinct, 
he  had  only  to  look  at  his  daughter  to  see  them  be- 
fore him  again,  in  all  their  youthful  beauty.  His 
daughter,  the  image  of  his  dead  wife,  to  marry  a 
Christian !     It  was  the  bitterness  of  gall ! 

The  Rabbi  Tamor's  father  and  grandfather  had 

been  rabbis  before  him,  and  in  his  veins  surged  the 

blood  of  devotion  to  Israel's  cause.     He  had  been 

in  this  country  many  years,  but  the  roots  of  his 
[234] 


I* 

m   lii 


A   DAUGHTER   OF    ISRAEL 

life  had  been  planted  in  Russia,  in  a  Ghetto  where 
the  traditions  of  thousands  of  years  still  survived 
in  daily  life,  and  in  spirit  he  still  dwelt  there.  To 
him  Christianity  meant  oppression,  persecution, 
torture.  His  nature  was  stern  and  unbending; 
there  could  be  no  compromise,  no  palliation;  the 
sinner  against  Israel  was  like  a  venomous  serpent 
that  mush  be  crushed  without  argument.  And 
now  his  duty  was  clear. 

When  the  officials  of  the  synagogue  met,  a  few 
days  before  Yom  Kippur,  the  Rabbi  Tamor,  pale 
and  trembling,  but  firm  in  his  determination,  laid 
before  them  the  case  of  a  young  woman  who  had 
resolved  to  marry  outside  her  faith.  The  officials 
listened,  horror-stricken,  but  turned  to  him  for  the 
verdict.  He  was  a  wise  man,  they  knew,  learned 
in  Mishna  and  Thora,  and  they  had  become  ac- 
customed to  abide  by  his  decisions. 

"  The  warning ! "  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Let 
us  read  aloud  the  warning  of  the  ban ! " 

The  new  rabbi,  who  by  courtesy  had  been  invited 

to  the  meeting,  and  who  had  listened  with  interest 

to  Rabbi  Tamor's  narrative,  raised  his  hand  and 

leaned  forward  as  if  he  were  about  to  speak.     But 
[235] 


CHILDREN    OF   MEN 

when  he  heard  the  clerk  ask  for  the  girl's  name, 
and  heard  Rabbi  Tamor,  in  a  hoarse,  stifling  voice, 
answer,  "  Bertha  Tamor,  my — ^my  daughter !  "  his 
hand  fell  and  the  words  died  upon  his  lips.  But 
he  frowned  and  sat  for  a  long  time  plunged  in 
deep  thought. 

•  •  •  ■  • 

Upon  the  Day  of  Atonement  Bertha  fasted. 
She,  too,  had  gone  through  a  bitter  struggle.  For 
a  nature  like  hers  to  abandon  the  faith  of  her  race 
meant  a  racking  of  every  fibre  of  soul  and  body. 
She  had  not  slept  for  three  nights.  Her  face  was 
pale,  and  her  eyes  were  encircled  with  black 
shadows.  But  through  all  her  misery,  through 
all  the  distress  that  she  felt  over  her  father's  grief, 
she  could  not  subdue  the  throbbing  of  exulting 
joy  that  pulsed  through  her  veins,  nor  blot  out 
from  her  mind  the  blue  eyes  of  her  lover  or  the 
ardour  of  his  kisses.  But  grief  and  joy  only  com- 
bined to  wear  out  her  vitality ;  she  felt  despondent, 
depressed. 

The   sun   began   to   sink   below   the   housetops. 
The  day's  fasting  and  prayer  were  slowly  coming 
to  an  end.     Bertha  went  to  the  synagogue,  where, 
[  236  ] 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    ISRAEL 

all  that  day,  sinCfe  sunrise,  her  father  had  been 
praying.  The  news  of  the  proposed  reading  of 
the  warning  had  spread,  and  when  Bertha  entered 
the  gallery  set  aside  for  women  in  the  synagogue, 
she  felt  every  eye  upon  her. 

The  Yom  Kippur  service  is  long,  and  to  him  who 
knows  the  story  of  Israel,  intensely  impressive. 
When  it  drew  near  its  close  the  Rabbi  Tamor 
slowly  rose,  and  with  trembling  hands  unfolded  a 
paper.  Several  times  he  cleared  his  throat  as  if  to 
speak,  but  each  time  his  voice  seemed  to  fail  him. 
the  silence  of  death  had  fallen  upon  the  congre- 
gation. 

"  Warning !  "  he  began.  He  was  clutching  the 
arm  of  the  man  who  stood  nearest  him  to  steady 
himself. 

"  Warning  of  the  ban  of  excommunication  upon 
the  daughter  of " 

"Stop!" 

The  new  rabbi,  seated  among  the  congregation, 
had  risen,  and  was  walking  rapidly  toward  the 
platform.  A  wave  of  excitement  swept  through 
the  hall.  Rabbi  Tamor's  hand  fell  to  his  side. 
For  a  moment  a  look  of  relief  came  into  his  face. 
[237] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

His  duty  was  a  terrible  one,  and  any  interruption 
was  welcome.  When  the  new  rabbi  reached  the 
platform  he  began  to  speak.  His  voice  was  low 
and  musical,  and  after  the  harsh,  strident  tones  of 
their  old  rabbi,  fell  gratefully  upon  every  ear. 
He  was  a  young  man,  of  irregular,  rather  unpre- 
possessing features,  and  looked  more  like  an  ener- 
getic sweatshop  worker  than  a  learned  rabbi.  But 
when  he  began  to  speak,  and  the  congregation  be- 
held the  light  that  came  into  his  eyes,  every  man  in 
that  hall  felt,  instinctively,  "  Here  is  a  teacher  of 
Israel!" 

"  It  is  irregular,"  he  began,  in  his  soft  voice. 
"  I  am  violating  every  law  and  every  rule.  But 
this  is  the  Day  of  Atonement,  and  I  would  be  un- 
true to  my  faith,  to  my  God  and  to  you,  my  new 
children,  were  I  to  keep  silent." 

When  Bertha,  in  her  place  in  the  gallery,  real- 
ised what  her  father  was  about  to  do  she  had  be- 
come as  pale  as  a  ghost,  and  had  clutched  the  rail- 
ing in  front  of  her,  and  had  bitten  her  lip  until  the 
blood  came  to  keep  from  crying  aloud  in  her  an- 
guish.    And  she  had   sat  there  motionless   as   a 

statue,  seeing  nothing  but  her  father's  pale  face 
[238] 


I 


A   DAUGHTER   OF    ISRAEL 

and  the  misery  in  his  eyes.  When  the  new  rabbi 
arose  and  began  to  speak,  she  became  dazed.  The 
platform,  the  ark,  and  all  the  people  below  and 
around  her  began  to  swim  before  her  eyes.  She 
felt  faint,  felt  that  she  was  about  to  become  un- 
conscious, when  a  sudden  passionate  note  that  had 
come  into  the  speaker's  voice  acted  like  a  tonic 
upon  her,  and  then,  all  at  once,  she  became  aware 
that  the  vigorous,  magnetic  personality  of  the  new 
rabbi  had  taken  possession  of  the  whole  synagogue, 
and  after  that  her  eyes  never  left  his  face  while 
he  was  speaking. 

"  '  The  Lord  is  my  strength  and  song,  and  He 
is  become  my  salvation :  He  is  my  God,  and  I  will 
prepare  Him  a  habitation ;  my  father's  God,  and  I 
will  exalt  Him ! ' 

"  So  sang  Moses  unto  the  Lord,  and  so  year 
after  year,  century  after  century,  through  the 
long,  weary  dragging-out  of  the  ages,  have  we,  the 
^children  of  Israel,  sung  it  after  him.  Our  temples 
have  been  shattered,  our  strength  has  been  crushed, 
all  the  force,  all  the  skill,  all  the  cunning  of  man 
have  been  used  to  scatter  us,  to  persecute  us,  to 

torture  us,  to  wipe  us  off  the  face  of  the  earth. 
[239] 


CHILDREN    OF   MEN 

But  through  it  all  arose  our  steadfast  song.     He 
was  our  fathers'  God !     We  will  exalt  Him !  " 

And  then  the  speaker  launched  upon  th^  story  of 
Israel's  martyrdom.  In  a  voice  that  vibrated  with 
intense  emotion  he  recited  that  world-tragedy  of 
Israel's  downfall,  her  shame,  her  sufferings 
throughout  the  slow  centuries.  The  sorrow  of  it 
filled  Bertha's  heart.  She  was  following  every 
word,  every  gesture,  as  if  the  recital  fascinated 
her.  It  is  a  sad  story — there  is  none  other  like  it 
in  the  world.  Bertha  felt  the  pain  of  it  all  in  her 
own  heart.  And  then  he  told  how,  through  it  all, 
Israel  remained  steadfast.  How,  under  the  lash, 
at  the  point  of  the  knife,  in  the  flames  of  the  stake, 
Israel  remained  steadfast.  How,  in  the  face  of 
temptation,  with  the  vista  of  happiness,  of  wealth, 
of  empire  opening  before  her,  if  only  she  would 
renounce  her  faith — Israel  remained  steadfast. 
And  he  told  of  the  great  ones,  the  stars  of  Israel, 
who  had  chosen  death  rather  than  renounce  their 
faith,  who  had  preferred  ignominy,  privation,  tor- 
ture before  they  would  prove  untrue  to  their  God. 
"  He  is  our  fathers'  God !  "  he  cried.  "  Is  there 
a  daughter  of  Israel  who  will  not  exalt  Him.'*" 
[240] 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    ISRAEL 

There  was  a  moment  of  breathless  silence.  Then 
arose  a  piercing  cry  from  the  gallery.  Bertha  had 
sprung  to  her  feet. 

"  I  will  be  true !  "  she  cried.  "  I  will  be  stead- 
fast! He  is  my  fathers'  God  and  I  will  exalt 
Him!" 

A  commotion  arose,  and  men  and  women  ran 
forward  to  seize  her  by  the  hand.  But  she  brushed 
them  all  aside  and  walked  determinedly  toward 
the  new  rabbi.  She  seized  his  hand  and  carried  it 
to  her  lips. 

"  He  is  my  fathers'  God,"  she  said.  "  I  will 
exalt  Him!" 

And  repeating  this,  again  and  again,  she  hur- 
ried out  of  the  synagogue.  The  elders  crowded 
around  her  father  and  congratulated  him. 

It  is  but  a  short  distance  from  the  heart  of 
the  Ghetto  to  the  river,  and  in  times  of  poverty 
and  suffering  there  are  many  who  traverse  the  in- 
tervening space.  The  river  flows  silently.  Occa- 
sionally you  hear  the  splash  of  a  wave  breaking 
against  the  wharf,  but  the  deep,  swift  current  as 

it  sweeps  resistlessly  out  to  sea  makes  no  sound. 
[241] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

They  brought  to  Rabbi  Tamor,  many  hours 
afterward,  the  shawl  which  she  had  left  behind  her 
on  the  wharf.  They  took  him  to  the  spot,  and 
stood  near  him,  lest  in  his  grief  he  might  attempt 
to  throw  himself  into  the  water.  But  he  only 
stood  gazing  with  undimmed  eyes  at  the  dark  river, 
babbling  incoherently.  Once  he  raised  his  hand 
to  his  ear. 

"  Hark !  "  he  whispered.     "  Do  you  hesir?  " 

They  listened,  but  could  hear  nothing. 

"  It  is  her  voice.  She  is  crying,  '  I  will  exalt 
Him!'     Do  you  hear  it?" 

But  they  turned  their  heads  from  him  to  hide 
the  tears. 


[34^] 


THE  MESSAGE  OF  ARCTURUS 


THE  MESSAGE  OFARCTURUS 

David  Adler  sat  at  the  open  window  gazing  con- 
templatively at  the  sea  of  stars  whose  soft  radiance 
filled  the  heavens.  He  was  lonelj.  The  stars  were 
his  friends.  Particularly  one  bright  star  whose 
steadfastness,  throughout  his  many  night  vigils, 
had  arrested  his  attention.  It  seemed  to  twinkle  less 
than  the  others,  seemed  more  remote  and  purer.  It 
was  Arcturus. 

To  a  lonely  person,  fretting  under  the  peevish 
worries  of  life,  the  contemplation  of  the  stars  brings 
a  feeling  of  contentment  that  is  often  akin  to  hap- 
piness. Beside  this  glorious  panorama,  with  its 
background  of  infinity  and  eternity,  its  colossal 
force,  its  sublime  grandeur,  the  ills  of  life  seem 
trivial.  And  David,  who  had  been  lonely  all  his 
life,  would  sit  for  hours  upon  each  bright  night, 
building  castles  along  the  Milky  Way  and  pouring 
out  his  soul  to  the  stellar  universe — particularly  to 

Arcturus,  who  had  never  failed  him.     Upon  this 
[245] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 
night  there  was  a  faint  smile  of  amusement  upon  his 
face.     He  was  thinking  of  the  queer  mission  that 
Mandelkern,  his  employer,  had  asked  him  to  under- 
take that  day. 

Mandelkern  was  old  and  crabbed  and  ugly,  but 
very  rich,  and  when  that  morning  he  had  said  to 
David,  "  I  am  thinking  of  marrying,"  David  felt 
an  almost  uncontrollable  desire  to  laugh.  Then, 
in  his  wheezy  voice,  Mandelkern  had  outlined  his 
plan. 

"  The  Shadchen  has  arranged  it  all.  She  is 
younger  than  I — oh,  a  great  many  years  younger, 
David — and  she  does  not  know  me.  We  have  only 
seen  each  other  once.  Of  course  she  is  marrying 
me  for  my  money,  but  I  know  that  when  once  we  are 
married  she  will  love  me.  But  the  trouble  is,  David, 
that  I  cannot  find  out  for  myself,  positively, 
whether  she  is  the  kind  of  girl  I  want  to  marry. 
You  see,  if  I  were  to  go  and  see  her  myself,  she 
would  be  on  her  good  behaviour  all  the  time.  They 
always  are.  And  I  would  not  know,  until  after  we 
were  married,  whether  she  is  amiable,  dutiful,  studi- 
ous, modest — in  short,  whether  she  is  just  what  a 
girl  should  be.  And  then  it  would  be  too  late.  So 
[246] 


THE  MESSAGE  OF  ARCTURUS 
I  want  you,  like  the  good  David  that  you  are,  to 
see  her — don't  you  know? — and  get  acquainted 
with  her — don't  you  know? — and  er — question  her 
— er — study  her — don't  you  know?"  David  had 
promised  to  do  what  he  could  and  they  had  shaken 
hands,  and  the  firm,  hearty  pressure  of  his  em- 
ployer's grasp  had  told  him,  more  than  words  could 
convey,  how  terribly  earnest  he  was  in  his  curiosity. 
By  the  Ught  of  the  stars  David  now  sat  ponder- 
ing over  this  droll  situation  and  smiHng.  And  as 
he  gazed  at  his  friend  Arcturus  it  seemed  to  him, 
after  all,  a  matter  of  the  smallest  moment  whether 
Mandelkern  married  the  right  girl  or  not — or  mar- 
ried at  all — or  whether  anybody  married — or  lived 

died. 


On  the  pretext  of  a  trivial  errand  David  set  out 
to  study  the  personality  and  character  of  his  em- 
ployer's chosen  bride.  The  moment  his  eyes  fell 
upon  her  the  pretext  that  he  had  selected  fled  from 
his  mind.  In  sheer  bewilderment  he  stood  looking 
at  her.  And  when  her  face  lit  up  and  she  began 
to  laugh  merrily,  David  was  ready  to  turn  and 
run  in  his  embarrassment.  He  beheld  a  mere  girl. 
[247] 


CHILDREN    OF   MEN 

She  could  not  have  been  more  than  eighteen  or  nine- 
teen at  the  most,  and,  although  her  figure  was 
mature,  her  face  and  bearing  were  girlish.  And 
she  was  exquisitely  pretty.  At  the  very  first  im- 
pression it  seemed  to  David  that  he  perceived  a  cold 
gleam  in  her  eye  that  betokened  sordidness  or  mean- 
ness, but  in  a  twinkling  he  perceived  that  he  had 
been  mistaken.  A  winsome  sweetness  rested  upon 
her  lovely  features.  It  was  probably  the  uncon- 
scious memory  of  Mandelkern  that  had  given  that 
momentary  colour  to  his  thoughts.  And  now,  even 
before  he  had  completed  his  admiring  inventory  of 
her  physical  charms,  she  stood  laughing  at  him. 

"  You  look  so  funny,"  she  said.  "  I  cannot  help 
laughing." 

Then  David  began  to  laugh,  and  in  a  moment 

they  were  friends.     To  his  delight  he  found  that 

she  was  clever,  a  shrewd  observer,  an  entertaining 

companion.     Many  things  that  she  said  awakened 

no  response  in  him.     It  was  not  until  later  that  he 

discovered  the  reason ;  she  had  lived  all  her  young 

years  in  the  active  world,  in  touch  with  the  struggle, 

the  stir  of  life;  he  had  lived  in  dreamland  with  the' 

stars. 

[248] 


THE    MESSAGE    OF    ARCTURUS 

When  Mandelkern  asked  David  what  impression 
the  girl  had  made  upon  him,  he  found,  to  his  amaze- 
ment, that  he  was  unable  to  give  a  satisfactory 
reply. 

"  She  is  charming,  Mr.  Mandelkern,"  he  said. 
His  employer  nodded  assent,  but  added : 

"  I  know  that,  but  is  she  amiable  ?  " 

David  pondered  for  a  long  time.     Then  he  said : 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Mandelkern,  I  have  had  no  more 
opportunity  of  judging  what  her  qualities  are 
than  you  have.  I  will  have  to  see  more  of  her.  But 
I  will  go  to  see  her  several  times,  and  probably  in 
a  week  or  two  weeks  I  shall  be  able  to  give  you  a 
clear  idea  of  her  character." 

Mandelkern  nodded  approvingly. 

"  You  are  a  good  David,"  he  said.  "  I  have  con- 
fidence in  your  judgment." 

And  the  stars  that  night  seemed  brighter,  partic- 
ularly his  friend  Arcturus,  who  shone  with  won- 
derf ul  splendour  and  filled  David's  heart  with  deep 
content — and  the  pulsing  joy  of  living. 
•  •  •  •  • 

When  the  revelation  came  to  him  David  felt  no 

shock,  experienced  no  surprise.     She  had  been  so 
[24,9] 


CHILDREN  OF  MEN 
constantly  in  his  thoughts,  had  drifted  so  quietly 
into  his  life,  that,  when  suddenly  he  realised  that 
she  had  become  a  part  of  his  being,  it  seemed  but 
the  natural  order  of  events.  It  could  have  been 
nothing  else.  He  had  been  born  into  the  world  for 
this.  Through  all  their  many  talks  the  name  of 
Mandelkern  had  never  been  mentioned.  In  the 
beginning  the  thought  of  this  sweet,  girlish  nature 
being  doomed  to  mate  itself  with  grey,  blear-eyed 
Mandelkern  had  "haunted  him  like  a  nightmare. 
But  in  the  sunshine  of  her  presence  David  quickly 
forgot  both  his  employer  and  the  scheming  Shad- 
chen,  and  when  it  dawned  upon  him  that  he  loved 
her,  that  she  was  necessary  to  him,  that  it  was  in 
the  harmonious  plan  of  the  universe  that  they 
should  be  united  forever,  the  thought  of  Mandel- 
kern came  only  as  a  reminder  of  the  unpleasant 
duty  of  revealing  the  truth  to  him. 

Not  a  word  of  love  had  he  spoken.  Upon  a  basis 
of  close  friendship  there  had  sprung  up  between 
them  a  spirit  of  camaraderie  in  which  sentiment 
played  no  part.  Now,  suddenly,  David  felt  toward 
her  a  tenderness  that  he  had  never  known  before — 

a  desire  to  protect  her,  to  cherish  her — ht  loved  her. 
[250] 


\^M.  THE    MESSAGE    OF    ARCTURUS 

^B  It  dawned  upon  Mandelkern  that  David's  an- 
H|  swers  to  his  questions  were  becoming  more  and  more 
vague  and  unsatisfactory.  And  one  night  the 
Shadchen,  becoming  alarmed  at  David's  fre- 
quent visits  to  the  girl,  urged  Mandelkern  to  make 
haste. 

"  It  makes  me  uneasy,"  he  said,  "  to  see  you 
sitting  idle  while  a  young  man  has  so  many  oppor- 
tunities of  courting  your  promised  bride." 

^landelkern's  watery  eyes  narrowed  to  a  slit  and 
his  teetli  closed  tightly  together.  Then  he  an- 
swered firmly : 

"  Have  no  fear.  She  will  be  mine.  The  lad  is 
young."  And  after  a  moment  he  repeated,  "  The 
lad  is  young !  " 

Aye,  David  was  young!  His  pulses  throbbed 
with  the  vigour  of  youth,  with  the  joy  of  hope, 
with  the  deep  torrent  of  a  heart's  first  love.  Glori- 
ous j^puth!  Thou  art  the  richest  heritage  of  the 
children  of  men!  Canst  thou  not  tarry?  Down 
the  bright  beam  of  Arcturus  there  came  to  David 
a  light  that  illumined  his  soul.  Sitting  at  his  win- 
dow with  gaze  upturned  to  the  starry  heavens, 
there  came  to  him  the  soft,  sweet  realisation  that 

[251] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

the  secret  of  the  universe  was  love,  that  life's  cup 
of  happiness  was  at  his  lips,  that  Arcturus  had  been 
but  waiting  all  these  millions  upon  millions  of  years 
to  see  the  veil  lifted  from  his  eyes,  and  the  blise  of 
love  revealed.  Golden  youth!  Canst  thou  not 
tarry  ? 

•  •  •  k  • 

They  were  walking  along  the  street  as  night  was 
falling.  They  were  laughing  and  chatting  gaily, 
discussing  a  droll  legend  of  the  Talmud  that  David 
had  recited  to  her. 

"  It  reminds  me,"  said  David,  "  of  a  story  about 
the  Rabbi  ben  Zaccai,  who " 

A  sudden  moan  and  faint  cry  made  him  pause 
and  quickly  turn.  A  woman  whom  they  had  just 
passed  was  staggering  with  her  hands  pressed  to 
her  breast.  David  sprang  toward  her,  but  before 
he  could  reach  her  side  she  had  fallen  to  the  side- 
walk, and  lay  there  motionless.  In  an  instant  he 
had  raised  her  to  her  knees,  and  was  chafing  her 
wrists  to  restore  her  to  consciousness.  She  recov- 
ered quickly,  but  as  soon  as  David  had  helped  her 
to  her  feet  she  began  to  cry  weakly,  and  would  have 

fallen  again  had  he  not  supported  her. 
[259] 


THE    MESSAGE    OF   ARCTURUS 
"What  IS  the  matter?"  he  asked.     "Are  you 

m?" 

The  woman's  sobs  increased,  and  David  repeated 
his  question.  Then,  with  the  tears  streaming  down 
her  face,  she  answered : 

"  I  have  eaten  nothing  for  three  days.     I  am  ^i 
starving.    I  cannot  beg.     I  cannot  die.    Oh,  I  am 
so  miserable ! " 

David  assisted  her  to  the  steps  of  the  tenement 
in  which  she  lived,  and  summoned  her  neighbours. 
He  gave  them  what  little  money  he  had  in  his 
pocket,  urged  them  to  make  haste  and  bring  the 
poor  woman  food  and  stimulants,  and,  promis- 
ing to  return  the  next  day,  rejoined  his  com- 
panion. 

"  My  God!  "  he  said,  "  wasn't  that  terrible!  " 

"  Yes.  It  was  terrible !  "  she  said.  There  was 
an  expression  in  her  voice  that  caused  him  to  look 
at  her,  quickly,  wonderingly.  Her  face  had  paled. 
Her  lips  were  tightly  pressed  together.  She  was 
breathing  rapidly.  Her  whole  frame  seemed  agi- 
tated by  some  suppressed  emotion.  It  was  not  pity. 
Her  eyes  were  dry  and  gleaming.  It  was  not  shock 
or  faintness.     There  was  an  expression  of  deter- 

[253] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 

mination,  of  emphatic  resolve  in  her  features. 
David  felt  amazed. 

"  Look  at  me !  "  he  said.  "  Look  me  full  in  the 
face!" 

She  gave  a  short,  harsh  laugh.  In  her  eyes 
David  saw  that  same  gleam  of  sordid  selfishness 
that  he  had  observed  when  first  he  met  her.  But 
now  it  was  clear,  glittering,  unmistakable. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking.?  "  he  asked,  slowly. 
Her  glance  never  wavered.  David  felt  the  beating 
of  his  heart  grow  slower. 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  she  said.  She  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment,  gave  another  short  laugh,  and 
then  went  on: 

"  I  was  thinking  that  that  poor  woman  would 
not  have  starved  if  she  had  married  Mandelkern. 
I  was  also  thinking  that  I  am  going  to  marry  Man- 
delkern. I  was  also  thinking  how  terrible  it  would 
be  if  I  did  not  marry  Mandelkern,  and  would,  some 
day,  have  starvation  to  fear — ^like  that  woman." 

Having  unburdened  her  mind,  she  seemed  re- 
lieved, and,  in  a  moment  became  her  old  self.  With 
a  playful  gesture  she  seized  David's  arm  and  shook 

him. 

[254] 


THE    MESSAGE   OF    ARCTURUS 

"  Come,  sleepyhead,  wake  up !  "  she  cried  gaily. 
"  Don't  stand  there  staring  at  me  as  though  I  were 
a  ghost.  What  were  you  saying  about  the  Rabbi 
ben  Zaccai  ?  " 

David  Adler  sat  at  the  open  window  gazing  at 
the  swarming  stars,  whose  radiance  had  begun  to 
pale.  The  dawn  of  day  was  at  hand.  Even  now 
a  faint  glow  of  light  suffused  the  eastern  sky.  But 
David  saw  it  not.  His  eyes  were  fastened  upon 
Arcturus,  whose  brightness  was  yet  undimmed, 
whose  lustre  transcended  the  brightness  of  the 
myriads  of  stars  that  crowded  around.  Travelling 
through  the  immeasurable  realms  of  space,  straight 
to  his  heart,  streamed  that  bright  ray,  the  messen- 
ger of  Arcturus,  cold,  relentless — without  hope. 


1255] 


QUEER    SCHARENSTEIN 


QUEER    SCHARENSTEIN 

"  ScHARENSTEiN?  *'  they  would  say.     "  Oh,  Schar- 
enstein  is  queer !     He  is  good-hearted,  poor  fellow, 

but " 

Then  they  would  tap  their  foreheads  signifi- 
cantly and  shake  their  heads.  He  had  come  from  a 
hamlet  in  Bessarabia — a  hamlet  so  small  that  you 
would  not  find  it  on  any  map,  even  if  you  could 
pronounce  the  name.  The  whole  population  of 
the  hamlet  did  not  exceed  three  hundred  souls,  of 
whom  all  but  three  or  four  families  were  Christians. 
And  these  Cnristians  had  risen,  one  day,  and  had 
fallen  upon  the  Jews.  Scharenstein's  wife  was 
stabbed  through  the  heart,  and  his  son,  his  brown- 
eyed  little  boy,  was  burned  with  the  house.  Upon 
Scharenstein's  breast,  as  a  reminder  of  an  old  his- 
torical episode,  they  hacked  a  crude  sign  of  a  cross ; 
then  they  let  him  go,  and  Scharenstein  in  some  way 
— no  one  ever  knew  how — found  his  way  to  this 
country.     When  the  ship  came  into  the  harbour 

[259] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

he  asked  a  sailor  what  that  majestic  figure  was  that 
held  aloft  the  shining  light  whose  rajs  lit  up 
the  wide  stretch  of  the  bay.  Thej  told  him  it 
was  the  statue  of  Liberty  Enlightening  the 
World. 

"  It  is  good,"  he  said. 

He  found  work  in  a  sweatshop.  An  immigrant 
from  a  neighbouring  hamlet  came  over  later  and 
told  the  story,  but  when  they  came  to  Scharenstein 
with  sympathy  he  only  laughed. 

"  He  is  queer,"  they  said. 

In  all  that  shop  none  other  worked  as  diligently 
as  Scharenstein.  He  was  the  first  to  arrive,  and 
the  last  to  leave,  and  through  all  the  day  he  worked 
cheerfully,  almost  merrily,  often  humming  old 
airs  that  his  fellow-workers  had  not  heard  for 
many  years.  And  a  man  who  worked  harder  than 
his  fellows  in  a  sweatshop  must  surely  have  been 
queer,  for  in  those  days  the  sweatshop  was  a  place 
where  the  bodies  and  souls  of  men  and  women 
writhed  through  hour  after  hour  of  torment  and 
misery,  until,  in  sheer  exhaustion,  they  became 
numb.  Scharenstein  went  through  all  this  with  a 
smile  on  his  lips,  and  even  on  the  hottest  day,  when 

[260] 


QUEER   SCHARENSTEIN 

there  came  a  few  moments'  respite,  he  would  keep 
treading  away  at  his  machine  and  sing  while  the 
others  were  gasping  for  breath.  And  at  night, 
when  the  work  was  done,  and  the  weary  toilers 
dragged  themselves  home  and  flung  themselves 
upon  their  dreary  beds,  Scharenstein  would  trudge 
all  the  way  down  to  the  Battery  and  stand  for 
hours  gazing  at  the  statue  of  Liberty  Enlighten- 
ing the  World.  And  as  he  gazed,  the  tense  lines  of 
his  face  would  relax,  and  a  bright  light  would 
come  into  his  eyes,  perhaps  a  tear  would  trickle 
down  his  cheek.  Then,  after  holding  out  both 
arms  in  a  yearning  farewell,  he  would  turn  and 
walk  slowly  homeward. 

There  was  one  day — it  was  in  summer^  when  the 
thermometer  stood  at  ninety-five  in  the  shade — 
that  the  burden  of  life  seemed  too  heavy  to  be 
borne.  The  air  of  the  sweatshop  was  damp  from 
the  wet  cloth,  and  hot  from  the  big  stove  upon 
which  the  irons  were  heating.  The  machines  were 
roaring  and  clicking  in  a  deafening  din,  above 
which,  every  now  and  then,  rose  a  loud  hissing 
sound  as  a  red-hot  goose  was  plunged  into  a  tub 

of  water.     The  dampness  and  heat  seemed  to  per- 
[261] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

meate  everything;  the  machines  were  hot  to  the 
touch.  Men  sat  stripped  to  their  undershirts,  the 
perspiration  pouring  from  them.  The  sweater  sat 
as  far  from  the  stove  as  he  could  get,  figuring  his 
accounts  and  frowning.  The  cost  of  labour  was 
too  high.  Suddenly  Marna,  the  pale,  fat  old 
woman  who  sat  at  a  machine  close  by  the  ironers, 
spat  upon  the  floor  and  cried : 

"  A  curse  on  a  world  like  this ! " 

Some  looked  up  in  surprise,  for  Mama  rarely 
spoke,  but  the  most  of  them  went  on  without  heed- 
ing her  until  they  heard  the  voice  of  Scharenstein 
with  an  intonation  that  was  new  to  them. 

"  Right,  Marna,"  he  said.  "  A  terrible  world. 
A  terrible  world  it  is.    Ho !  ho !  ho ! " 

They  all  looked  at  him.  He  was  smiling,  and 
turning  around  to  look  from  face  to  face.  Then, 
still  smiling  and  speaking  slowly  and  hesitatingly, 
as  if  he  found  it  hard  to  select  the  right  word,  he 
went  on: 

"  An  awful  world.     They  come  and  take  the 

woman — hold  her  down  under  their  knees — ^hold 

her  throat  tight  in  their  fingers — like  I  hold  this 

cloth — ^tight — and  stick  a  dagger  into  her  heart. 
[262] 


QUEER   SCHARENSTEIN 

And  they  set  fire  to  the  house — to  the  big  house — 
all  the  smoke  comes  out  of  the  windows — and  flames 
— bigger  and  hotter  than  in  the  stove  there — oh, 
terrible  flames ! — and  the  little  boy's  face  comes  to 
the  window — and  they  all  laugh.  Ho!  ho!  ho! 
Then  the  whole  house  falls  in — and  the  little  boy's 
face  disappears — and  oh,  how  high  the  flames 
go  up ! " 

He  looked  around  him,  smiling.  A  chill  struck 
the  heart  of  every  one  of  his  hearers.  He  shook 
his  head  slowly  and  said  to  Marna : 

"  Right,  Marna !     It  is  a  terrible  world." 

The  sweater  was  busy  with  his  accounts  and  had 
not  heard.  But  the  sudden  cessation  of  work  made 
him  look  up,  ajid  hearing  Scharenstein  address  the 
woman,  and  seeing  others  looking  at  her,  he  turned 
upon  Mama. 

"Confound  it!  Is  this  a  time  to  be  idling? 
Stop  your  chattering  and  back  to  work.  We  must 
finish  everything  before " 

There  was  something  harsh  and  grating  in  his 
voice  that  seemed  to  electrify  Scharenstein.    Drop- 
ping his  work,  he  sprang  between  the  sweater  and 
Marna  and  held  out  his  arms  beseechingly. 
[263] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

"  Oh,  spare  her !  For  God's  sake  spare  her ! 
She  is  an  innocent  woman !  She  has  done  you  no 
harm!" 

And  as  he  stood  with  outstretched  arms,  his  shirt 
fell  open,  and  every  eye  saw  plainly  upon  his 
breast  the  red  sign  of  a  crude  cross.  The  sweater 
fell  back  in  amazement.  Then  a  sudden  light 
dawned  upon  him,  and,  in  an  altered  tone,  he  said : 
"  Very  well.  I  will  do  her  no  harm.  Sit  down,  my 
friend.  You  need  not  work  to-day  if  you  are  not 
feeling  well.  I  will  get  someone  to  take  your  place, 
and — and — "  (it  required  a  heroic  effort)  "you 
will  not  lose  the  day's  pay.  You  had  better  go 
home." 

Scharenstein  smiled  and  thanked  the  sweater. 
Then  he  started  down  the  stairs.  Marna  followed 
him,  and  with  her  arm  around  him  helped  him  down 
the  steps. 

"  My  little  boy  is  playing  in  the  street,"  she 
said.  "  Why  don't  you  take  him  for  a  walk  to 
the  park  where  you  took  him  before.'*  It  will  do 
you  good,  and  he  will  be  company  for  you." 

Scharenstein's     face     lit     up     with     pleasure. 

Mama's   little   boy   had   frequently   accompanied 
[264] 


QUEER    SCHAREN STEIN 

him  on  his  walks  to  the  Battery,  and  to  see  the  Httle 
fellow  romping  about  and  hear  him  screaming  with 
delight  at  the  harbour  sights  had  filled  Scharen- 
stein's  heart  with  exquisite  pleasure.  He  now 
sought  the  boy.  He  found  him  playing  with  his 
companions,  all  of  them  running  like  mad  through 
all  that  fierce  heat. 

"Boy!"  cried  Scharenstein.  "Look!"  The 
boy  turned  and  saw  Scharenstein  standing  erect 
with  one  arm  held  straight  over  his  head,  the  other 
clasped  against  his  breast  as  though  he  were  hug- 
ging something — the  attitude  of  the  statue  of 
Liberty  Enlightening  the  World.  With  a  shout  of 
delight  he  ran  toward  his  friend,  crying,  "  Take 
me  with  you ! "  And  hand  in  hand  they  walked 
down  to  the  sea-wall. 

The  boy  watched  the  ships.  Scharenstein, 
seated  in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  feasted  his  eyes  upon 
that  graceful  bronze  figure  that  stood  so  lonely, 
so  pensive,  yet  held  aloft  so  joyfully  its  hopeful 
emblem. 

He  sat  like  one  entranced,  and  now  and  then  his 
lips  would  move  as  though  he  ^ere  struggling  to 
utter  some  of  the  vague  thoughts  that  were  float- 

[265] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

ing  in  his  brain.  His  face,  however,  was  serene, 
and  his  whole  frame  was  relaxed  in  a  delightful, 
restful  abandon. 

The  boy  played  and  ran  about,  and  asked 
Scharenstein  for  pennies  to  buy  fruit,  and  slowly 
the  hours  slipped  by.  As  the  sun  sank,  and  the 
coolness  of  night  succeeded  the  painful  heat  of  the 
afternoon,  Scharenstein  moved  from  his  seat  and 
stood  as  close  to  the  water's  edge  as  he  could. 
Then  it  grew  dark,  and  the  boy  came  and  leaned 
wearily  against  him. 

"  I  am  tired,"  he  said.     "  Let  us  go  home  now." 

Scharenstein  took  the  little  fellow  in  his  arms 
and  perched  him  upon  one  of  the  stone  posts. 

"  Soon,  boy,"  he  said.  "  Soon  we  will  go. 
But  let  us  wait  to  see  the  statue  light  her  torch." 

They  gazed  out  into  the  gathering  darkness. 
Scharenstein's  hand  caressed  the  boy's  curly  hair; 
the  little  head  rested  peacefully  against  his  breast, 
— against  the  livid  cross  that  throbbed  under  his 
shirt, — and  the  pressure  stirred  tumultuous  mem- 
ories within  him. 

"  You  are  a  fine  boy,"  he  said.  "  But  you  are 
not  my  boy." 

[366] 


i 


QUEER    SCHARENSTEIX 

"  I'm  mamma's  boy,"  murmured  the  lad, 
drowsily. 

"  Yes.  Very  true.  Very  true.  You  are 
mamma's  boy.  But  I  have  a  little  boy,  and — 
dear  me! — I  forgot  all  about  him." 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  the  boy. 

"  Out  there,"  answered  Scharenstein,  pointing 
to  the  dim  outlines  of  the  statue  of  Liberty  En- 
lightening the  World.  "  She  is  keeping  him  for 
me !  But  listen ! "  He  lowered  his  voice  to  a 
whisper.  "  When  I  see  him  again  I  will  ask  him 
to  come  and  play  with  you.  He  often  used  to  play 
with  me.  He  can  run  and  sing,  and  he  plays  just 
like  a  sweet  little  angel.     Oh,  look !  " 

The  bright  electric  light  flashed  from  the 
statue's  torch,  lighting  up  the  vast  harbour  with 
all  its  shipping,  lighting  up  the  little  head  that 
rested  against  Scharenstein's  breast,  and  lighting 
up  Scharenstein's  face,  now  drawn  and  twitching 
convulsively. 

"Do   you    see   him.?"^he   whispered    hoarsely. 

"  Boy !     Do  you  see  my  little  boy  out  there?     He 

has  big  brown  eyes.     Do  you  see  him?     He  is  my 

only    boy.     He    wants    me.     He    is    calling    me. 

[267] 


r 

I 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

Wait  here,  boy.  I  will  go  out  and  bring  him 
to  you.  He  will  play  with  you.  He  loves  to 
play." 

Gently  he  lowered  his  little  companion  from  the 
post  and  carried  him  to  a  bench. 

"  Wait  here,  boy,"  he  said.  "  I  will  soon  be 
back." 

In  sleepy  wonderment  the  little  fellow  watched 
Scharenstein  take  off  his  hat  and  coat  and  climb 
over  the  chain.  The  moment  he  disappeared  from 
view  the  little  fellow  became  thoroughly  awake 
and  ran  forward  to  the  sea-wall.  Scharenstein 
was  swimming  clumsily,  fiercely  out  into  the 
bay. 

"  Come  back ! "  cried  the  boy.     "  Come  back !  " 

He  heard  Scharenstein's  voice  faintly,  "  I  am 
coming."  Then  again,  more  faintly  still,  "  I  am 
coming."  Then  all  became  silent  except  the  lap- 
ping of  the  waves  against  the  sea-wall,  and  the 
boy  began  to  cry. 

It  was  fully  an  hour  before  the  alarm  was  given 

and  a  boat  lowered,  but  of  Scharenstein  they  found 

no  trace.     The  harbour  waters  are  swift,  and  the 

currents    sweep    twistingly    in    many    directions. 
[268] 


QUEER  SCHARENSTEIN 
The  harbour  clings  tenaciously  to  its  dead — gives 
them  up  only  with  reluctance  and  after  many  days. 
And  the  statue  of  Liberty  Enlightening  the  World 
looks  down  upon  the  search  and  holds  out  hope. 
But  it  gives  no  help. 


[Q69] 


I 


THE    COMPACT 


THE    COMPACT 

The  paper  lies  before  me  as  I  write.  The  bit- 
terness has  all  passed.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was 
Sorkin  who  told  it  to  me  as  a  good  story.  The 
paper  read  thus: 

"  Agreement  between  I  gnat  z  Sorkin  and  Nathan 
Bykowsky,  made  in  Wilna^  Russia,  December  10, 
1861 :  Sorkin  goes  to  Germany  and  Bykowsky  goes 
to  America,  in  New  York.  In  twenty  years  all  the 
money  they  have  is  put  together  and  each  takes 
half  because  the  lucky  one  loves  his  old  friend. 
We  swear  it  on  the  Torah. 

"  Ignatz  Sorkin. 

"  Nathan  Bykowsky.*' 

It  is  Sorkin's  story: 

"  The  twenty  years  went  by  and  I  came  to  New 
York.  My  heart  was  heavy.  I  had  not  heard  from 
Bykowsky  for  five  years.  Why  had  he  not  writr 
[373] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

ten?  If  he  was  poor,  surely  he  must  have  heard 
that  I  was  rich,  and  that  half  of  all  I  had  belonged 
to  him.  And  if  he  was  rich,  did  he  mean  to  break 
the  agreement?  In  either  case  it  was  bad  for  me. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  that  last  clause — '  we  swear 
it  on  the  Torah  ' !  I  cannot  say.  Perhaps  I  would 
not  have  come.  For  things  had  gone  well  with  me 
in  Germany.  I  owned  twelve  thousand  dollars. 
And  I  might  have  forgotten  the  agreement.  But 
I  had  sworn  it  on  the  Torah !    I  could  not  forget  it, 

"  Still,  what  was  the  use  of  taking  too  many 
chances?  I  brought  only  three  thousand  dollars 
with  me.  The  rest  I  left  in  government  bonds  on 
the  other  side.  If  Bykowsky  was  a  poor  man  he 
should  have  half  of  three  thousand  dollars.  Surely 
that  was  enough  for  a  poor  man.  I  had  not  sworn 
on  the  Torah  to  remember  the  nine  thousand  dol- 
lars. 

"  So  I  came  here.     I  looked  for  B3^kowsky,  but 

could  not  find  him.    He  had  worked  as  a  tailor,  and 

I  went  from  one  shop  to  another  asking  everybody, 

'Do  you  know  my  old  friend  Bykowsky?'     At 

last  I  found  a  man  who  kept  a  tailor  shop.    He  was 

a  fine  man.     He  had  a  big  diamond  in  his  shirt. 
[274] 


THE    COMPACT 

Bykowsky?  Yes,  he  remembered  Bykowsky. 
Bykowskv  used  to  work  for  him.  And  where  was 
he  now?  He  did  not  know.  But  when  Bykowsky 
left  his  shop  he  went  to  open  one  for  himself  and 
became  a  boss.  A  boss.'*  What  was  a  boss.?  *  I 
am  a  boss,'  the  man  said.  Then  I  took  a  good 
look  at  his  diamond.  *  Maybe,'  I  thought,  '  if 
Bykowsky  is  a  boss,  he  too  has  a  diamond  like 
that.'     So  I  went  out  to  look  for  Bykowsky  the 


"  Then  I  thought  to  myself,  '  Why  shall  I  be 
stingy  ?  I  will  tell  Bykowsky  that  I  have  five  thou- 
sand dollars  and  I  will  give  him  half.  He  was  a 
good  friend  of  mine.  I  will  be  liberal.'  So  I 
looked  and  looked  everywhere,  but  nobody  seemed 
to  remember  Bykowsky  the  boss.  At  last  I  met  a 
policeman.  He  knew  Bykowsky.  He  did  not  know 
where  he  lived,  but  he  knew  him  when  he  was  a 
tailor  boss.  '  Is  he  not  a  tailor  boss  any  more.? '  I 
asked  him.  '  Oh,  no,'  he  said.  '  He  sold  his  tailor 
shop  and  opened  a  saloon.'  '  Is  that  a  better  busi- 
ness than  a  tailor  shop?  '  I  asked  him.  The  police- 
man laughed  at  me  and  said,  '  Sure.  A  good 
saloon  is  better  than  a  dozen  tailor  shops.' 

.[275] 


CHILDREN    OF   MEN 

*'  H'm !  I  was  very  sorry  that  he  did  not  know 
where  Bykowsky  kept  his  saloon.  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  would  go  to  every  saloon  in  the  city 
until  I  found  him.  And  when  I  found  him  I  would 
say,  '  Bykowsky,  I  have  come  to  keep  the  agree- 
ment. I  have  saved  seven  thousand  dollars.  Half 
is  yours.'  Because  I  liked  Bykowsky.  We  were 
the  very  best  of  friends. 

"  I  went  from  saloon  to  saloon.     I  am  not  a 

drinking  man.    But  as  I  did  not  like  to  ask  so  many 

questions  for  nothing  I  bought  a  cigar  in  every 

place.     Soon  I  had  all  my  pockets  full  of  cigars. 

I  do  not  smoke.     I  kept  the  cigars  for  Bykowsky. 

He  is  a  great  smoker.    Then  I  met  a  man  who  had 

once  been  in  Bykowsky's  saloon.    He  told  me  what 

a  place  it  was.    Such  looking-glasses !    Such  fancy 

things!    And  he  was  making  so  much  money  that 

he  had  to  hire  a  man  to  do  nothing  but  sit  at  a  desk 

all  day  and  put  the  money  in  a  drawer.     So  I  says 

to  myself,  *  Ah,  ha !     Dear  friend  Bykowsky,  you 

are  playing  a  joke  on  your  dear  old  friend  Sorkin. 

You  want  to  wait  until  he  comes  and  then  fill  him 

with  joy  by  giving  him  half  of  that  fine  saloon 

business ! '     So  I  asked  the  man  where  that  saloon 
[276] 


THE   COMPACT 

was.  '  Oh,'  he  said,  '  that  was  several  years  ago. 
Bykowsky  made  so  much  money  that  he  gave  up 
the  saloon  and  went  into  the  real-estate  business.' 

"  H'm !  I  began  to  understand  it.  Bykowsky 
had  been  making  money  so  fast  that  he  never  had 
time  to  write  to  me.  But  never  mind.  I  would  go 
to  him.  I  would  grasp  him  by  the  hand  and  I 
would  say,  '  Dearest  friend  of  my  boyhood,  I  have 
come  to  you  with  ten  thousand  dollars  that  I  have 
saved.  Half  is  yours.  My  only  hope  is  that  you 
are  poor,  so  that  I  can  have  thq  pleasure  of  sharing 
with  you  all  my  wealth.'  Then  he  will  be  overcome 
and  he  wiU  get  red  in  the  face,  and  he  will  tell  me 
that  he  has  got  many  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dol- 
lars to  share  with  me.     Ah,  yes! 

"  There  are  not  so  many  people  in  the  real-estate 
business  as  in  the  saloon  business.  And  soon  I 
found  a  man  who  knew  all  about  my  friend  By- 
kowsky. '  The  last  I  heard  of  him,'  he  said,  '  he 
went  out  of  the  real-estate  business.  He  took  all 
his  money  and  bought  a  fine  row  of  houses.  And 
he  said  he  was  not  going  to  work  any  more.' 

"  That  was  just  like  dear  old  Bykowsky.     He 

was   a   regular   aristocrat.      As   long   as   he   had 
[277] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

enough  money  to  live  on  he  did  not  care  to  work. 
But  he  would  be  glad  to  see  his  dear  old  friend. 
I  would  pretend  that  I  did  not  know  how  rich  he 
was.  I  would  be  open  and  honest  with  him.  I 
would  keep  the  letter  and  the  spirit  of  the  agree- 
ment. I  would  not  keep  back  a  single  cent.  '  By- 
kowsky,'  I  would  say,  '  dear,  good,  old  Bykowsky. 
Here  I  am.  I  have  three  thousand  dollars  in  my 
pocket.  I  have  nine  thousand  dollars  in  good  gov- 
ernment bonds  in  Germany.  I  also  have  a  fine 
gold  watch,  and  a  gold  chain  and  a  ring,  but  the 
ring  is  not  solid  gold.  Half  of  what  I  have  is 
yours.'  And  we  will  fall  on  each  other's  shoulders 
and  be,  oh,  so  glad! 

"  I  found  Bykowsky.  He  was  not  at  home  where 
he  lived.  But  I  found  him  in  a  cafe.  He  was  play- 
ing pinochle  with  the  proprietor.  I  took  a  good  long 
look  at  him.  He  did  not  know  me,  but  I  recog- 
nised him  right  away.  I  went  over  and  held  out 
my  hand.  *  It  is  my  old  friend  Bykowsky ! '  I 
said.  He  looked  at  me  and  got  very  red  in  the  face. 
'  Ah,  ha ! '  I  said  to  myself.  '  I  have  guessed 
right.'  Then  he  cried, '  Sorkin  I '  and  we  threw  our 
arms  around  each  other.     '  Bykowsky,'  I  said,  '  I 

[278] 


THE   COMPACT 

have  come  many  thousand  miles  to  keep  our  boy- 
hood agreement.  Maybe  you  and  I  might  have 
forgotten  it,  but  we  swore  on  the  Torah,  and  I 
know  that  you  could  not  forget  it  any  more  than  I 
could.  I  have  three  thousand  dollars  in  my  pocket. 
I  have  nine  thousand  dollars  in  good  government 
bonds  in  Germany.  I  have  a  fine  gold  watch  and  a 
gold  chain  and  a  ring,  but  the  ring  is  not  solid 
gold.  Half  of  what  I  have  is  yours.  I  hope — 
oh,  Bykowsky,  I  am  so  selfish — ^I  hope  that  you 
are  poor  so  that  I  can  have  the  pleasure  of  dividing 
with  you.'  Then  Bykowsky  said,  *  Let  me  see  the 
ring!' 

"  I  showed  him  the  ring,  and  he  shook  his  head 
very  sadly.  '  You  are  right,  Sorkin,'  he  said.  '  It 
is  not  solid  gold.' 

"  '  Well,  dear  friend,'  I  said,  *  how  has  the  world 
gone  with  you  ?  ' 

"  '  Very  badly,'  he  said.  '  Let  me  see  the  watch 
and  the  chain.' 

"  Something  told  me  he  was  joking.  So  I  said, 
'  Please  keep  the  watch  and  chain  as  a  token  of  our 
old  friendship.  We  will  not  count  it  in  the  divi- 
sion. But  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  things  have 
[279] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

gone  badly  with  you.  Why  did  you  not '  (this 
was  only  a  sly  hint)  '  go  into  the  real-estate  busi- 
ness? I  hear  so  many  people  are  getting  rich  that 
way.' 

"  Then  he  sighed — and  I  felt  that  something 
was  wrong. 

" '  Dear  friend  Sorkin,'  he  said.  '  Dearest 
comrade  of  my  boyhood  days,  I  have  a  sad  story 
to  tell  you.  A  year  ago  I  owned  a  fine  row  of 
houses.  I  had  nearly  two  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars. I  was  looking  forward  to  the  time  when  I 
would  write  to  you,  dear,  kind  old  friend,  and  ask 
you  to  come  over  to  share  with  me  all  my  wealth. 
But  alas !  The  wheel  of  fortune  turned !  I  began 
to  speculate.  It  is  a  long,  sad  story.  Two  months 
ago  I  sold  the  last  of  my  houses.  To-day  I  have 
three  hundred  dollars  left.  Dear,  sweet  Sorkin, 
you  come  as  a  Godsend  from  heaven.  My  luck  has 
turned!'" 

•  •  •  •  • 

Here  there  was  a  long  pause  in  Sorkin's  story. 
Then  he  said: 

"  My  son,  even  to  this  day  when  I  think  of  that 
moment,  I  feel  the  sensation  of  choking." 

[280] 


THE   COMPACT 

"  But  did  you  keep  the  compact?  " 

And,  in  a  flash,  I  regretted  the  question. 

"  I  had  sworn  on  the  Torah,"  Sorkin  replied. 

The  firm  of  Sorkin  &  Bykowsky  has  recently 
changed  its  name  to  Sorkin,  Bykowsky  &  Co.  The 
Co.  is  young  Ignatz  Sorkin  Bykowsky.  There  is 
also  a  young  Nathan  Bykowsky  Sorkin.  But  he 
is  still  at  school. 


[9811 


A     SONG    OF    SONGS 


A    SONG    OF    SONGS 

I  KNOW  a  story  that  runs  almost  like  a  song — 
like  that  old  song,  "  Behold,  thou  art  fair,  my  love ; 
behold,  thou  art  fair !  " 

In  the  heart  of  the  Jewish  quarter  stood  an  old 
Catholic  church,  relic  of  those  bygone  days  ere  the 
oppressed  Jews  of  Russia  and  Austria  had  learned 
that  this  land  was  a  haven  of  refuge,  and  had  come 
to  settle  in  this  neighbourhood  by  the  hundreds  of 
thousands.  Close  by  this  church  lived  the  Rabbi 
Sama,  one  of  the  earliest  of  the  immigrants — an 
honest,  whole-souled  man  who  knew  the  Talmud 
and  the  Kabbala  by  heart,  and  who  had  a  daughter. 
Her  name  was  Hannah — and  there  the  story  and 
the  song  began. 

It  began  in  the  days  when  Hannah  was  a  young 
girl,  who  would  sit  for  hours  on  her  father's  door- 
step with  a  school-book  in  her  lap,  and  when  Rich- 
ard Shea  was  altar  boy  in  the  Catholic  church 
close  by,  and  would  spend  most  of  his  time  on  the 
[  285  ] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

doorstep  beside  Hannah.  And  they  lived  a  life 
of  dreams,  those  happy  dreams  that  abound  in  the 
realm  of  childhood,  where  no  thought  is  darkened 
by  the  grim  monsters  of  reality,  the  sordid  facts  of 
life. 

In  those  days  Richard's  tasks  in  the  service  of 
the  Holy  Roman  Church  possessed  but  little  sig- 
nificance for  him.  It  was  his  duty  to  swing  the 
censer,  to  light  the  candles,  and  to  carry  the  Book 
at  Mass,  and  when  the  task  was  done  Richard's  only 
thought  was  of  Hannah,  who  was  sitting  on  her 
father's  doorstep  waiting  for  him.  Father  Brady, 
the  rector  of  the  Catholic  church,  who  was  Rich- 
ard's guardian — for  the  lad  was  an  orphan,  and 
had  been  left  entirely  in  the  priest's  care — was  very 
exacting  in  all  affairs  that  pertained  to  his  parish, 
and  insisted  that  Richard  should  perform  his 
duties  carefully  and  conscientiously.  But  when 
the  service  was  over  his  vigilance  relaxed,  and,  so 
long  as  there  was  no  complaint  from  the  neigh- 
bours, the  lad  might  do  as  he  pleased.  And  it 
was  Richard's  greatest  pleasure  to  be  with  Han- 
nah. 

They  would  sit  for  hours  in  the  long  summer 
L286] 


A   SONG   OF   SONGS 

nights,  hand  in  hand,  building  those  wonderful 
fabrics  of  childish  imagination,  looking  forward 
hopefully,  enthusiastically,  to  a  future  whose  basis, 
whose  essence  was  an  eternal  companionship  of  their 
two  souls.  There  came  a  night — perhaps  it  was 
because  the  stars  were  brighter  than  usual,  perhaps 
because  the  night  was  balmy,  or  perhaps  because 
the  spirit  of  spring  was  in  the  air — at  any  rate, 
that  fatal  night  came  when,  in  some  unaccountable 
manner,  their  lips  came  together,  came  closely, 
tightly  together,  in  a  long,  lingering  kiss,  and 
the  next  moment  they  found  themselves  flooded  in 
a  stream  of  light.  Hastily,  guiltily  they  looked 
up.  The  door  had  been  opened,  and  the  Rabbi 
Sarna  was  looking  down  upon  them. 

Hannah's  father  kissed  her  that  night  as  usual, 
and  she  went  to  bed  without  hearing  a  word  of 
reproach  or  of  paternal  advice.  Whether  he  had 
gained  his  wisdom  from  the  Kabbala  or  the  Tal- 
mud I  do  not  know,  but  the  Rabbi  Sarna  was  a 
wise  man.  He  took  a  night  to  think  the  matter 
over.  Perhaps  he  felt  that  the  bringing-up  of  a 
motherless  daughter  was   no  trivial  matter,   and 

that  there  were  times  when,  being  a  man,  his  in- 
[287] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

stinct  was  sure  to  be  wrong,  and  that  only  the  most 
careful  consideration  and  deliberate  thought  could 
guide  him  into  the  right  path.  For  a  whole  day 
he  said  nothing. 

The  following  evening,  however,  when  the  grace 
after  meal  had  been  said,  and  "  Hear,  O  Israel !  '* 
had  been  recited,  he  laid  his  hand  fondly  upon  his 
daughter's  head  and  spoke  to  her,  kindly. 

"  Remember,  Hannah,"  he  said,  "  the  lad  is  not 
one  of  our  people.  He  is  a  good  lad,  and  I  like 
him,  but  you  are  a  daughter  of  Israel.  You  come 
of  a  race,  Hannah,  that  has  been  persecuted  for 
thousands  of  years  by  his  people.  If  your  mother 
were  alive,  she  would  forbid  you  ever  to  see  him 
again.  But  I  do  not  feel  that  I  ought  to  be  so 
harsh.  I  only  ask  you,  my  daughter,  to  remember 
that  you  are  of  a  race  that  was  chosen  by  Jehovah, 
and  that  he  comes  from  a  race  that  has  made  us 
suffer  misery  for  many  ages." 

Hannah  went  to  bed  and  cried,  and  rebelled  at 
the  injustice  of  an  arrangement  that  seemed  to  her 
all  wrong  and  distorted.  Why  were  not  the  Jewish 
lads  that  she  knew  as  tall  and  straight  as  her  Rich- 
ard? And  why  had  they  not  blue  eyes  like  his? 
[288] 


A   SONG  OF   SONGS 

And    curly,    golden   hair?      And   that    strength? 
And  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

In  some  unaccountable  manner — it  may  have 
been  that  the  rabbi  told  the  butcher  and  the  butcher 
told  the  baker — the  matter  reached  the  ears  of 
Richard's  guardian,  who  promptly  took  the  lad  to 
task  for  it. 

"  Remember,  Richard,"  he  said,  "  she  is  a  Jew- 
ess. You  need  not  look  so  fierce.  I  know  that  she 
is  a  nice  little  girl,  but,  after  all,  her  father  is  a 
Jew,  and  her  mother  was  a  Jewess.  They  have  al- 
ways been  the  enemy  of  our  religion.  You  know 
enough  of  history  to  know  what  suffering  they 
have  caused.  I  have  not  the  sUghtest  objection  to 
your  seeing  her  and  talking  to  her,  but  things 
seem  to  have  gone  a  Httle  too  far.  You  must  re- 
member that  you  cannot  marry  her.  So  what  is  the 
use  of  wasting  your  time  ?  " 

And,  of  course,  Richard  went  to  bed  very  glum 
and  disheartened.  For  a  long  time  he  did  not  see 
Hannah,  and  when,  after  several  weeks,  they  came 
face  to  face  again,  each  bowed,  somewhat  stiffly, 
and  promptly  felt  that  the  bottom  had  dropped  out 
of  life. 

[289] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 

So  the  years  passed,  and  the  dreams  of  child- 
hood passed,  and  many  changes  came.  Hannah 
grew  to  be  a  young  woman,  and  her  beauty  in- 
creased. Her  eyes  were  dark  and  big,  her  cheeks 
were  of  the  olive  tint  that  predominates  in  her  race, 
but  enlivened  by  a  rosy  tinge;  she  grew  tall  and 
very  dignified  in  her  carriage — and  Richard,  each 
time  he  saw  her,  was  reminded  of  the  canticle,  '  Be- 
hold, thou  art  fair,  my  love;  behold,  thou  art 
fair!" 

He,  too,  had  grown  older,  had  grown  taller  and 
manlier ;  the  boldness  and  audacity  that  had  capti- 
vated the  fanc^'^  of  the  Jewish  lass  had  developed 
into  manly  strength  and  forceful  personality ;  but 
his  heart  had  not  freed  itself  from  that  early  at- 
tachment. While  the  service  lasted,  and  the  odour 
of  incense  rose  to  his  nostrils,  and  the  pomp  and 
ceremony  of  his  religion  thrilled  his  whole  being, 
Hannah  was  only  a  memory,  a  dim  recollection  of 
a  life-long  past.  But  when,  from  time  to  time,  he 
met  her  and  saw  the  look  of  joy  that  lit  up  her 
eyes,  Hannah  became  a  vivid,  stirring,  all-absorbing 
reality.     And  Richard  was  troubled. 

Father  Brady  sent  Richard  to  the  seminary  to 
[290] 


A   SONG   OF    SONGS 

prepare  for  the  priesthood.  For  two  winters  Rich- 
ard pursued  his  theological  studies,  pursued  them 
with  zeal,  and  devoted  himself  heart  and  soul  to 
the  career  his  fond  guardian  had  selected  for  him. 
And  for  two  summers,  during  which  he  helped  his 
guardian  in  the  parish  work,  the  young  man  strug- 
gled and  fought  and  battled  manfully  with  the 
problem  of  Hannah.  They  had  spoken  but  little  to 
each  other.  The  dream  of  childhood  had  passed, 
and  they  had  grown  to  realise  the  enormity  of  the 
barrier  that  rose  between  them — a  barrier  of  races, 
of  empires,  of  ages — a  monstrous  barrier  before 
whose  leviathan  proportions  they  were  but  insig- 
nificant atoms.     And  yet 

It  came  like  one  of  those  levantine  storms,  when 
one  moment  the  sky  is  blue  and  the  air  is  still,  and 
the  next  moment  the  floodgates  of  heaven  are  open, 
and  the  air  is  black  with  tempest.  The  Rabbi 
Sarna  came  rushing  to  the  house  of  Father  Brady. 
They  had  known  each  other  for  years,  and  a  cer- 
tain intimacy,  based  upon  mutual  respect  for  each 
other's  learning  and  integrity,  had  grown  up  be- 
tween them.     And  the  rabbi  poured  forth  his  tale 

of  woe. 

[291] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

"  I  begged,  I  implored  her,"  he  ran  on,  "  to  tell 
me  the  cause  of  her  stubbornness.  The  finest  young 
men  you  ever  saw,  one  after  another,  handsome, 
strong,  well-to-do,  have  asked  her,  and  have  come 
to  me  to  intercede  for  them.  And  at  last  I  went  to 
her  and  begged  her,  beseeched  her  to  tell  me  why 
she  persisted  in  refusing  them  all.  I  am  an  old  man. 
I  cannot  live  many  years  longer.  The  dearest  wish 
of  my  heart  is  to  see  her  happily  married  and 
settled  in  life.  And  she  persists  in  driving  every 
suitor  from  the  house.  And  what  do  you  think 
she  told  me?" 

A  horrible  suspicion  came  into  the  priest's  head, 
but  all  he  said  was,  "  I  cannot  guess."  The  rabbi 
was  gasping  with  excitement. 

"  She  loves  that  Richard  of  yours.  If  she  can- 
not marry  him  she  will  not  marry  anyone  else.  I 
told  her  she  was  crazy.  Her  only  fear  was  that  I 
would  tell  you — or  him.  She  does  not  even  realise 
the  enormity  of  it !    The  girl  is  out  of  her  head !  " 

The  priest  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  "  for  warning  me  in 
time.  It  was  an  act  of  kindness.  I  will  see  that  an 
end  is  put  to  the  matter  at  once.  At  least,  so  far 
[292] 


A  SONG  OF  SONGS 
as  Richard  is  concerned.  If  he  is  to  blame  for  that 
feeling  on  your  daughter's  part  I  will  see  that  he 
does  whatever  is  necessary  to  remedy  the  harm  he 
has  done.  His  course  in  life  has  been  laid  out.  He 
will  be  a  priest.  I  am  very  thankful  to  you  for 
coming  to  me." 

The  rabbi  was  greatly  troubled.  "  I  do  not 
know  what  to  do,"  he  said.  "  I  am  all  in  a  whirl. 
I  felt  that  it  was  only  right  that  you  should  know. 
But  I  cannot  imagine  what  can  be  done." 

"  Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Father  Brady.  As  soon 
as  the  rabbi  had  departed  he  sent  for  Richard. 

"  What  is  this  I  hear  about  that  Jewish  girl?  " 
he  demanded,  sternly.    Richard  turned  pale. 

"  What !  "  cried  the  priest.  "  Is  it  possible  that 
you  are  to  blame  ?  " 

"To  blame?"  asked  Richard.  "I?  For 
what?" 

"  Only  this  minute,"  the  priest  went  on,  "  her 
father  was  here  with  a  story  that  it  made  my  blood 
boil  to  hear.  The  girl  has  rejected  all  her  suitors, 
and  tells  her  father  that  she  will  marry  no  one  but 
you  or- " 

With  a  loud  cry  Richard  sprang  toward  the 

[293  ] 


CHILDREN    OF   MEN 

door.  There  was  a  chair  in  the  way,  but  it  went 
spinning  across  the  room. 

"  Richard !  "  roared  his  guardian.  "  What  is  all 
this?  " 

But  Richard,  bareheaded  and  coatless,  was  tear- 
ing down  the  stairs,  three,  four,  five  at  a  time,  and 
the  next  moment  there  was  a  crash  that  made  the 
house  tremble  to  its  foundation.  Richard  had  gone 
out,  and  had  shut  the  door  behind  him.  The  rabbi, 
homeward  bound,  was  nearing  his  door  when  a 
young  whirlwind,  hatless  and  coatless,  rushed  by 
him.  The  rabbi  stood  still,  amazed.  His  amaze- 
ment grew  when  he  beheld  this  tornado  whirl  up 
the  steps  of  his  house  and  throw  itself  violently 
against  the  door.  As  he  ran  forward  to  see  what 
was  happening  the  door  opened  and  Hannah  stood 
on  the  threshold,  the  light  behind  her  streaming 
upon  her  shining  hair.  And,  the  next  instant,  all 
the  wisdom  that  he  had  learned  from  the  Talmud 
and  the  Kabbala  deserted  him.  In  after  years  he 
confessed  that  at  that  moment  he  felt  like  a  fool. 
For  the  tempestuous  Richard  had  seized  Hannah 
in  his  arms  and  was  kissing  her  cheeks  and  her 
lips  and  her  eyes,  and  pouring  out  a  perfect  tor- 

[294] 


A   SONG   OF    SONGS 

rent  of  endearing  phrases.  And  Hannah's  arms 
were  tightly  wound  around  his  neck,  and  she  was 
crying  as  though  she  feared  that  all  the  elements 
were  about  to  try  to  drag  the  young  man  from  her. 
A  glint  of  reason  returned  to  the  rabbi. 

"  Hold !  "  he  cried.  "  Foolish  children !  Stand 
apart !     Listen  to  me !  " 

They  turned  and  looked  at  him.  The  Rabbi 
Sarna  looked  into  the  eyes  of  Richard.  But  what 
he  saw  there  troubled  him.  He  could  not  bear  the 
young  man's  gaze.  Almost  in  despair  he  turned 
to  his  daughter.  "  Hannah,"  he  began.  Then  he 
looked  into  her  eyes,  and  his  gaze  fell.  He  sighed 
and  walked  past  them  into  the  house.  In  an  in- 
stant he  was  forgotten. 

"  Oh,  thou  art  fair,  my  love ! "  cried  Richard. 
"Thou  art  fair!" 

When  "  the. traveller  from  New  Zealand  "  stands 
upon  the  last  remaining  arch  of  London  Bridge 
and  gazes  upon  the  ruins  of  St.  Paul's,  the  Cath- 
olic Church  will  still  flourish.  And  when  the  na- 
tions of  the  earth  have  died  and  their  names  have 
become  mere  memories,  as  men  to-day  remember 
[295] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

the  Phoenicians  and  the  Romans,  then  will  there 
still  rise  to  heaven  that  daily  prayer,  "  Hear,  O 
Israel !  "  And  in  the  chronicles  of  neither  of  these 
religions  will  there  ever  be  found  mention  of  either 
Richard  Shea  or  his  wife  Hannah.  But,  if  that 
story  be  true  of  the  Great  Book  in  which  the  lives 
of  all  men  are  written  down,  and  the  motives  of  all 
their  deeds  recorded  in  black  and  white,  then  surely 
there  is  a  page  upon  which  these  names  appear. 
And  perhaps,  occasionally,  an  angel  peeps  at  it 
and  brushes  away  a  t«syp  and  smiles. 


A   WEDDING    IN    DURESS 


AWEDDING    IN    DURESS 

In  the  days  when  the  Ashkenazim  and  the 
Sephardim  were  divided  by  walls  of  sentiment  and 
pride,  as  difficult  to  surmount  as  the  walls  that 
separated  patrician  from  plebeian  in  ancient  Rome, 
an  Ashkenazi  youth  married  a  Sephardi  maiden. 
It  happened  some  four  hundred  or  five  hundred 
years  ago.  Youth  and  maiden  are  dust,  their  ro- 
mance is  forgotten,  and  we  owe  them  an  apology 
for  disturbing  their  memory.  Let  us  only  add  that 
the  youth's  name  was  Zalman.     May  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

Zalman  rest  in  peace! 

«  .  •  •  • 

Zalman,  the  tailor,  lived  in  Essex  Street  on  the 
same  floor  with  the  Rabbi  Elsberg.  Zalman  pos- 
sessed two  treasures,  each  a  rarity  of  exquisite 
beauty,  each  vying  with  the  other  for  supremacy 
in  his  affections.  The  one  was  a  wine  glass  of  Ven- 
etian make,  wonderful  in  its  myriad-hued  colour- 
ing, its  fragile  texture,  and  its  rare  design.  The 
mate  of  it  rests  in  one  of  the  famous  museums  of 
[^9] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

Italy,  and  the  connoisseurs  came  from  far  and  near 
to  feast  their  eyes  upon  Zalman's  piece.  Money,  in 
sums  that  would  have  made  Zalman  a  rich  man  in 
that  neighbourhood,  had  been  offered  to  him  for 
this  treasure,  but  he  always  shook  his  head. 

"  It  has  been  in  my  family  for  hundreds  of 
years,"  he  would  say,  "  and  I  cannot  part  with  it. 
Years  ago — ^many,  many  years  ago — our  family 
was  wealthy,  but  now  I  have  nothing  left  save  this 
one  wine  glass.     I  would  rather  die  than  lose  It." 

His  visitors  would  depart  with  feelings  of 
mingled  wonder  and  rage ;  wonder  that  so  priceless 
a  gem  should  be  in  the  possession  of  a  decrepit,  un- 
tidy, poverty-stricken  East  Side  tailor;  and  rage 
that  he  should  be  so  stubborn  as  to  cling  to  it  in 
spite  of  the  most  alluring  offers  that  were  made  to 
him.  Zalman's  other  treasure  was  his  daughter 
Barbara,  whose  name,  like  the  wine  glass,  had  de- 
scended from  some  long-forgotten  Spanish  or 
Italian  ancestress.  All  the  lavish  praise  that  the 
most  enthusiastic  lover  of  things  beautiful  had 
ever  lavished  upon  that  wonderful  wine  glass 
would  have  applied  with  equal  truth  to  Barbara. 
Excepting  that  Barbara  was  distinctly  modern. 
[300] 


A   WEDDING    IN    DURESS 

Reuben  sat  in  the  Rabbi  Elsberg's  sitting-room, 
frowning  and  unhappy;  the  rabbi,  puffing  re- 
flectively at  a  long  pipe,  gazing  at  him  in  silence. 
Through  the  walls  they  could  hear  Barbara  sing- 
ing. Barbara  always  sang  when  she  was  merry, 
and  Barbara  was  merry,  as  a  rule,  from  the  moment 
she  left  her  bed  until  she  returned  to  it.  The  rabbi 
took  a  longer  pufF  than  usual,  and  then  asked 
Reuben : 

"  What  said  her  father?  " 

Reuben  gulped  several  times  as  if  the  words  that 
crowded  to  his  lips  for  utterance  were  choking 
him. 

"  It  is  well  for  him  that  he  is  her  father,"  he 
finally  said.  "  I  would  not  have  listened  to  so 
much  abuse  from  any  other  living  man."  (Reu- 
ben, by  the  way,  had  a  most  determined-looking 
chin,  and  there  was  something  very  earnest  in  the 
cut  of  his  features.) 

"  He  gave  me  to  understand,"  he  went  on,  "  that 
he  knew  perfectly  well  it  was  his  wine  glass  I  was 
after,  and  not  his  daughter.  That  I  was  counting 
on  his  dying  soon,  and  already  looked  forward  to 
selling  that  precious  glass  to  spend  the  money  in 

[301] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

riotous  living.  And  when  I  told  him  that  Barbara 
and  I  loved  each  other,  he  said  '  Bosh ! '  and  for- 
bade me  to  speak  of  it  again." 

The  rabbi  puffed  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

*'  He  evidently  has  not  a  flattering  opinion  of 
you,  my  young  friend." 

"  He  knows  nothing  against  me !  "  Rueben  hur- 
riedly exclaimed.  "  It  is  only  because  I  want 
Barbara.  He  would  say  the  same  to  anyone  else 
that  asked  for  his  daughter.  You  know  me,  rabbi ; 
you  have  known  me  a  long  time,  ever  since  I  was  a 
child.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  an  angel,  but  I  am 
not  bad.  I  love  the  girl,  and  I  can  take  good  care 
of  her.  I  don't  want  to  see  his  old  wine  glass  again. 
I'd  smash  it  into  a " 

Reuben's  jaw  fell,  and  his  eyes  stared  vacantly 
at  the  wall.  The  rabbi  followed  his  gaze,  and, 
seeing  nothing,  turned  to  Reuben  in  surprise. 

<*What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Reuben,  with  a  sheepish 
grin.  "  I — I  just  happened  to  think  of  some- 
thing." 

The  rabbi  frowned.  "  If  you  are  often  taken 
with  such  queer  ideas  that  make  you  look  so  idiotic, 
[302] 


p 


A  WEDDING  IN  DURESS 
I  don't  tliink  I  can  blame  Zalman  so  very  much." 
But  Reuben's  contrite  expression  immediately 
caused  him  to  regret  his  momentary  annoyance, 
and  holding  out  his  hand,  he  said,  affection- 
ately : 

"  Come,  Reuben,  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  3^ou. 
You  are  a  good  boy,  and  if  you  and  the  girl  love 
each  other  I  will  see  if  there  is  not  some  way  of 
overcoming  her  father's  objections." 

Taking  Reuben  by  the  arm  he  led  him  into  Zal- 
man's  shop.  Zalman  was  not  alone.  A  little 
shrivelled  old  man,  evidently  a  connoisseur  of 
oh  jet  8  d'art^  was  holding  the  wonderful  wine 
glass  to  the  light,  gloating  over  the  bewildering 
play  of  colours  that  flashed  from  it,  while  Zalman 
anxiously  hovered  about  him,  eager  to  receive  the 
glass  in  his  own  hands  again,  yet  proudly  calling 
the  old  man's  attention  to  its  hidden  beauties. 

Barbara  stood  in  the  doorway  that  led  to  the 
living-rooms  in  the  rear.  When  she  saw  Reuben 
she  blushed  and  smiled. 

Zalman  looked  up  and  saw  the  rabbi  and  smiled ; 
saw  who  was  with  him  and  frowned. 

"  I  just  dropped  in  to  have  a  little  chat,"  said 
[303] 


CHILDREN   OF   MEN 

the  rabbi,  "  but  there  is  no  hurry.  I  will  wait  un- 
til you  are  disengaged." 

The  connoisseur  carefully  set  the  glass  upon  the 
counter,  and  heaved  a  long,  painful  sigh. 

"  And  no  price  will  tempt  you  to  part  with  it.?  " 
he  asked.  Zalman  shook  his  head  and  grinned. 
What  followed  happened  with  exceeding  swiftness. 

Zalman  had  got  as  far  as,  "  It  has  been  in  our 

family  for  hundreds  of  years ^"  when  a  shadow 

caused  him  to  turn  his  head.  He  saw  Barbara 
throw  up  her  hands  in  amazement,  saw  the  rabbi 
start  forward  as  though  he  were  about  to  interfere 
in  something,  and  saw  the  precious  wine  glass  in 
Reuben's  hand.  Mechanically  he  reached  forward 
to  take  it  from  him,  and  then  instantly  felt  Reu- 
ben's other  hand  against  his  breast,  holding  him 
back,  and  heard  Reuben  saying,  quite  naturally, 
"Wait!" 

It  had  not  taken  ten  seconds — ^Zalman  suddenly 
felt  sick. 

The  connoisseur  hastily  put  on  his  glasses.  The 
situation  seemed  interesting. 

"  Mr.  Zalman,"  said  Reuben,  speaking  very 
slowly  and  distinctly,  yet  carefully  keeping  the 
[304] 


A   WEDDING   IN   DURESS 

tailor  at  arm's  length,  "  I  told  you  this  very  day 
that  your  daughter  Barbara  and  I  love  each  other. 
We  will  not  marry  without  your  consent.  So  you 
must  consent.  If  I  cannot  marry  Barbara  I  do  not 
care  what  happens  to  me.  I  will  have  nothing  to 
live  if  or.  I  can  give  her  a  good  home,  and  we  will 
be  very  happy.  You  can  come  to  live  with  us,  if 
you  like,  and  I  will  always  be  a  good  son  to  you. 
I  swear  by  the  Torah  that  this  glass  is  nothing  to 
me.  I  want  Barbara  because  I  love  her,  and  you 
can  throw  this  glass  into  the  river  for  all  I  care. 
But  if  you  do  not  give  your  consent  I  also  swear 
by  the  Torah  that  I  shall  fling  this  glass  to  the 
floor  and  smash  it  into  a  thousand  pieces." 

Zalman,  who  had  been  clutching  Reuben's  out- 
stretched arm  throughout  this  speech,  and  had  fol- 
lowed every  word  with  staring  eyes  and  open 
mouth,  dropped  his  arms  and  groaned.  Barbara 
had  listened  in  amazement  to  Reuben's  first  words, 
but  when  his  meaning  dawned  upon  her  she  had 
clapped  her  kerchief  to  her  mouth  and  fled  precipi- 
tately through  the  doorway  whence  now  came  faint 
sounds  which,  owing  to  the  distance,  might  have 
been  either  loud  weeping  or  violent  laughter.  The 
[305] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 

rabbi's  face  had  reddened  with  indignation.  The 
connoisseur  alone  was  smiling. 

"  Reuben,"  said  the  rabbi  sternly,  "  you  have 
gone  too  far.  Put  the  glass  down !  "  He  advanced 
toward  the  young  man. 

"  Hold !  "  cried  Reuben.  "  If  anyone  in  this 
room  touches  me  or  attempts  to  take  this  glass  from 
me,  I  shall  quickly  hurl  it  to  the  floor.  Look, 
everybody !  "  He  held  the  glass  aloft.  "  See  how 
fragile  it  is !  I  have  only  to  hold  it  a  little  tighter 
and  it  will  break  into  a  dozen  pieces,  and  no  human 
skill  will  ever  be  able  to  put  them  together  again !  " 

Zalman  was  in  agony. 

"  I  yield,"  he  cried.  "  Give  me  the  glass.  You 
shall  marry  Barbara  to-morrow.  Do  not  hold  it  so 
tightly.    Put  it  down  gently." 

He  held  out  liis  hand.  His  lips  were  twitching 
with  repressed  curses  on  Reuben's  head.  But 
Reuben  only  smiled. 

"  No,  good  father,"  he  said.  "  Not  to-morrow. 
You  might  change  your  mind.  Let  it  be  now,  and 
your  glass  is  safe." 

( "  What  a  pertinacious  young  man  I  "  thought 
the  connoisseur.) 

[  306  ] 


A   WEDDING    IN    DURESS 
May    the    fiends    devour    you ! " .  cried    Zal- 
man. 

"  Now  look  you,"  said  Reuben,  twirling  the 
delicate  glass  in  a  careless  way  that  sent  chill  shud- 
ders down  the  tailor's  spine ;  "  it  is  you  who  are 
stubborn.  Not  I.  If  you  knew  how  devotedly  I 
loved  Barbara  you  would  not,  you  could  not  be  so 
heartless  as  to  keep  us  apart." 

"  The  foul  fiends !  "  muttered  Zalman.  Beads  of 
perspiration  stood  out  upon  his  forehead;  he  was 
very  pale. 

"  You  were  young  yourself  once,"  Reuben  went 
on.  "  For  the  sake  of  your  own  youth,  cast  aside 
your  stubbornness  and  give  us  your  consent.  Bar- 
bara !     Barbara !     Where  are  you.'*  " 

The  young  woman,  blushing  like  a  rose,  came 
out  and  stood  beside  him  with  lowered  head  and 
downcast  eyes. 

"  You  see,"  said  Reuben,  gently  encircling  her 
waist,  "  we  love  each  other." 

"  The  foul  fiends !  "  muttered  Zalman. 

"  Help  me,  Barbara !  Help  me  to  plead  with 
your  father,"  urged  Reuben.  But  Barbara, 
abashed,  could  not  find  courage  to  raise  her  voice. 

[307] 


CHILDREN   OF    MEN 

Besides,  she  kept  her  kerchief  pressed  tightly 
against  her  lips. 

"  Would  you  make  your  own  daughter  unhappy 
for  the  rest  of  her  life?  "  Reuben  went  on.  (At 
every  sentence  Zalman  murmured  as  far  as  "  The 
foul  fiends !  "  then  stopped. )  "  Everything  is 
ready  save  your  consent.  The  good  Rabbi  Els- 
berg  is  here.  He  can  marry  us  on  the  spot.  We 
can  dispense  with  the  betrothal.  Our  hearts  have 
been  betrothed  for  more  than  a  year.  I  want  no 
dowry.  I  only  want  Barbara.  Can  you  be  so 
cruel  as  to  keep  us  apart.?  " 

The  glass  slipped  from  his  fingers  as  if  by  acci- 
dent, but  deftly  his  hand  swooped  below  it  and 
caught  it,  unharmed.     The  tailor  almost  swooned. 

"  Take  her !  "  he  cried,  hoarsely.  "  In  the  foul 
fiend's  name  take  her !  And  give  me  the  glass !  " 
He  held  out  his  trembling  hands.  With  a  joyful 
cry  Reuben  pressed  the  girl  tightly  against  his 
heart,  and  was  about  to  kiss  her  when  the  rabbi's 
voice  rang  out: 

"  This  is  outrageous !  I  refuse  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  marrying  them ! " 

Reuben  turned  pale.     To  be  so  near  victory, 
[308] 


A  WEDDING  IN  DURESS 
and  now  to  lose  ever3rthing  through  the  desertion 
of  his  old  friend,  was  an  unexpected,  dishearten- 
ing blow.  The  tailor's  face  brightened.  Bar- 
bara, who  had  looked  up  quickly  when  the  rabbi 
spoke,  began  to  cry  softly. 

"  I  have  consented,"  said  Zalman.  "  That  was 
what  you  asked,  was  it  not.?  Now  give  me  back 
my  wine  glass.     I  can  do  no  more." 

A  faint  smile  had  come  into  his  face.  It  must 
have  been  his  evil  guardian  who  prompted  that 
smile,  for  it  gave  Reuben  heart. 

"  If  the  rabbi  will  not  marry  us  immediately," 
said  Reuben,  "  then  I  have  lost  ever3rthing,  and 
have  nothing  more  to  live  for."  With  the  utmost 
deUberation  he  raised  an  enormous  iron  that  lay 
upon  the  counter,  placed  the  glass  carefully  upon 
the  floor,  and  held  the  iron  directly  over  it. 

"  I  shall  crush  the  glass  into  a  million  tiny  bits 
beneath  this  ponderous  weight !  " 

"Hold!"  screamed  the  tailor.  "He  shall 
marry  you!  Please,  oh,  please!  Marry  them, 
rabbi!  For  my  sake,  marry  them!  I  beg  it  of 
you !     I  cannot  bear  to  see  my  precious  glass  under 

that    horrible    weight!     Don't    let    it    fall!     Fob 

[309] 


CHILDREN    OF    MEN 
God's  sake,  hold  it  tight !     Oh,  rabbi,  marry  them, 
marry    them,    marry    them!      Let    me    have    my 
glass ! " 

The  rabbi  glared  at  Reuben,  then  at  the  tailor, 
who  was  almost  on  his  knees  before  him,  and  then 
at  the  face  of  the  connoisseur,  who,  somewhat  em- 
barrassed at  finding  himself  observed  in  that  ex- 
citing moment,  said,  apologetically,  "  I — ^I  don't 
mind  being  a  witness." 

The  rabbi  married  them. 

"  It  is  not  for  either  of  you  that  I  am  doing 
this,"  he  said,  in  stern  accents.  "  You  have  dis- 
graced yourselves — both  of  you.  But  for  the 
sake  of  this  old  man,  my  friend,  who  holds  that 
bauble  so  high  that  I  fear  he  will  lose  his  reason 
if  any  harm  befall  it,  I  yield." 

They  were  married.  And  then — and  not  until 
then — Reuben  raised  the  precious  wine  glass,  glit- 
tering and  sparkling  with  multi-coloured  fire, 
gently  from  the  floor  and  placed  it  upon  the  coun- 
ter. But  he  held  fast  to  the  iron.  Zalman 
pounced  upon  his  heirloom,  examined  it  carefully 
to  see  whether  the  faintest  mishap  had  marred  its 

beauty,  held  it  tightly  against  his  breast,  and  with 
[310] 


A   WEDDING   IN    DURESS 

Upraised  arm  turned  upon  his  daughter  and  her 
husband.  With  flashing  eyes  and  pallid  lips,  he 
cried: 

"  May  the  foul  fiends  curse  you !  May  God,  in 
His  righteousness " 

There  was  a  sound  of  crashing  glass.  Whether 
in  his  excitement  the  tailor's  fingers  had,  for  one 
instant,  relaxed  their  grip;  whether  mysterious 
Fate,  through  some  psychic  or  physical  agency 
had  playfully  wrought  a  momentary  paralysis  of 
his  nerves ;  whether — ^but  who  may  penetrate  these 
things.?  The  glass  had  slipped  from  his  hand. 
That  exquisite  creation  of  a  skill  that  had  perished 
centuries  ago,  that  fragile  relic  of  a  forgotten  art 
which,  only  a  moment  ago,  had  sparkled  and  glit- 
tered as  though  a  hundred  suns  were  imprisoned 
within  its  frail  sides,  now  lay  upon  the  floor  in  a 
thousand  shapeless  fragments. 


THE   END 


[311] 


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